


M'offre Une Pomme

by daphnerunning, Galiko



Series: A Snake in the Garden of Eden [1]
Category: Magi: The Labyrinth of Magic
Genre: AU, Anal Sex, Asphyxiation, F/M, M/M, Multi, Rough Sex, Size Kink, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-04
Updated: 2013-02-16
Packaged: 2017-11-28 05:19:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 10
Words: 93,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/670705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daphnerunning/pseuds/daphnerunning, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galiko/pseuds/Galiko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU, in which Ja'far and Sinbad never met when they were younger, Ja'far never left Al-Sarmen, and Sinbad never became king as consequence. </p><p>Ja'far, age 22, has been under the employ of Al-Sarmen for as long as he can remember. He's earned the title of Assassin over the years, and is explicitly charged with being the guardian of the young, mischievous Oracle of Kou, a task that he could happily do without. When Judal sends Sinbad, the renowned captain of the ship Sindria and 'dungeon pirate', a summons, all of Ja'far's carefully laid plans and logistics within the Kou Empire--as well as his nearly spotless record--quickly unravel. Masja, Enja, Sinju, eventual Sinja (as well as others).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

Al-Sarmen wants a meeting with him.

 

That’s hardly news--they’ve been trying to get him into talks for a year or more, probably since he’d destroyed that palace in Laem. What’s new, apparently, is that it’s their sorcerer who wants to get him into a meeting. “Masrur,” he calls, swinging down from the rigging to land on the deck, clutching the magical pelican-delivered paper in his hand. The pelting rain doesn’t make the ink run, though it tries to tear the paper out of his clenched hand. 

 

His first mate is right behind him, somehow, though Sinbad is certain he hadn’t been there when he’d started swinging down. “Yes, Captain?”

 

“The wizard’s sorcerer, this...Judal. What do you know about him?”

 

Masrur’s brows twitch inward a bit. “Not much.”

 

Sinbad grins. This is looking to be interesting. “Good, I was getting bored. Change course,” he shouts loud enough to be heard over the lashing winds. “Nor by nor’east, fast as we can!” His eyes narrow, and he thrusts the letter inside his shirt, ignoring the quiet reticence that means at least one of his followers thinks this is a bad idea. He hasn’t gotten to be the captain of a ship by listening to his subordinates, that’s for certain.

 

~

 

_Three weeks later_

 

Sinbad isn’t much for formal parties. Rather, he always enjoys them, but they never _quite_ seem to work out the way he plans, always ending with someone being chased out of somewhere with some kind of police or army called. Hardly _his_ fault, how the women flock to him, dying to hear tales of his life, clutching a copy of his memoirs to their ample chests more often than not. Hardly _his_ fault, though it is _sort of_ his fault that his men tend to make a habit of ignoring his orders and pilfering whatever looks shiny and isn’t nailed down. 

 

For that reason, he leaves the vast majority of his men in the city to bed down, and Masrur cleans up well enough, holding still long enough to let Sinbad stick some half-way nice clothes on him. He himself wears all his jewelry, all his djinns obvious on his body, over his nicest captain’s coat, specially tailored for his form. He hears the whispers as they walk through the city streets, hears his name, and watches the crowd part for them--another good reason to travel with Masrur, that.

 

The party is nice enough, thrown by some fat-faced king in honor of some marriage agreement, and Sinbad enjoys himself, relying on Masrur to keep an eye on any of Al-Sarmen’s movements. It’s out of the corner of his eye that he notices the boy first, a kid with a lovely face and a mass of dark hair bound in a braid trailing to the floor, on the arm of a slender, pale assassin. 

 

Oh, there’s nothing about him that says assassin, but Sinbad can tell with less than half a glance, and he can see Masrur twitch towards the pair. That’s them, all right, the Al-Sarmen sorcerer and his pet bodyguard. 

 

Time to dance.

 

Ja'far, on the other hand, _loathes_ parties. 

 

Not only are they a nightmare for keeping an eye on his charge, they're a nightmare in logistics in general, a nightmare for his _sanity_ when Judal insists that he looks just as nice as he does. Judal doesn't oft have the mind to allow himself to be dressed in layers and brocades and ruffles, but when he _does_ , Ja'far finds himself similarly, annoyingly draped, and it's all he can do to keep an eye on Judal while he stresses about decreased mobility in general. 

 

At a party like this, having all of his wits about him will save him faster than any quick draw for his weapons, however. 

 

"That's _him_ ," Judal insists, with all the enthusiasm of the entirely too-sheltered teenager that he is, and Ja'far grinds his molars as the brat grips his sleeve, _yanking_ him forward as he trots off. "I'm going to go talk to him."

 

"Priest, there are arranged _meetings_ for this later--"

 

"I wanna talk to him now." 

 

Ja'far is going to kill the kid himself, one of these days. He opens his mouth to protest, but Judal is already a step ahead of him, letting himself across the room and promptly sidling up to this… Sinbad person, whom apparently has caught the child's eye. Ja'far catches up in short order, eyeballs him once, and comes away unimpressed. 

 

Sinbad casts his gaze over the boy from up close, and likes what he sees. Power thrums within him, barely contained--no, _not_ contained--by his skin, from everything to the too-light way his braid hovers in the air to the way his feet barely seem to touch the ground. 

 

This could be _interesting_.

 

He bows, and holds out a hand. “You must be the Oracle. I think you wanted to meet me?”

 

Judal nods, eagerly reaching out to take Sinbad's hand. Before he can, however, a pale hand catches his wrist, promptly hauling him back, and he _pouts_ near-audibly. "Ja'faaaaarrrrr--"

 

"No one is to touch the Oracle of Kou without express permission," Ja'far flatly interrupts, gaze cool as it lands upon Sinbad. "You must be Sinbad. The priest requested an audience with you, which I suggest we take to a more private setting."

 

Sinbad takes a little snack from a passing tray and tosses it into the air, catching it in his mouth without breaking eye contact. “But I’m having fun at this party. He’s not _my_ priest, I don’t dance to his tune.” He looks appraisingly over the boy again, being more obvious about it this time for the assassin’s benefit. “Then again….yeah, this could be fun. Lead the way, _Priest_.”

 

Ja'far wants to kill _this one,_ too.

 

 _Humor him_ , Kouen says. The problem with that is that _humoring_ Judal never gets any of them anywhere but in trouble, and this is looking to be no exception. Ja'far's teeth set into a slow grind again, even more so when Judal lurches forward, looking far too pleased about latching onto Sinbad's arm no matter what his bodyguard _just said_.

 

What a little snot. 

 

"Is it true," Judal asks as he peers up at Sinbad, contemplative, "that you've conquered more dungeons than Prince Kouen?" 

 

“Unless he’s conquered twice as many since I’ve last been on land,” Sinbad says with a grin. “Is he up to eight yet? I won’t say I’m making it easy for him to pass me.” He lets the corner of his eye sweep over the assassin, then turns away from him, dismissing him entirely. “I’ve heard a few rumors about you, too. Is it true you can level a whole city just by looking at it?”

 

"I can do more than _that_." Judal looks infinitely pleased about his reputation, especially when he can squish himself close to Sinbad's side, cheek rubbing into his shoulder all too like an affectionate cat. It has to be something about the idiot's magoi that he can't see, Ja'far irritably decides, because Judal does the same damned thing with Kouen off and on. Like a moth to a flame--and in this case, there's a good chance Judal will get himself burnt to a crisp. 

 

There's another one--silent, less an obnoxious threat but still one, and Ja'far's gaze snaps to him briefly. The red hair and familiar eyes screams _Fanalis_ in an instant (and here they thought Laem had the only ones lurking about) and that could be… troublesome. He _knew_ this party was a bad idea. "Priest--"

 

"I'm taaaalking, leave me alone," Judal whines. It's more like wallowing in this man's rukh, if Ja'far has to guess, and he draws in a slow breath to keep himself from bodily hauling the brat away. "Someone like you," he sighs, "should have a country, and a palace, and all sorts of things like that--why don't you?"

 

Sinbad laughs, and because the priest touching him seems to make the assassin squirm and flinch, he wraps an arm around the boy’s slender waist, pulling him closer. Hardly an inconvenience, when he’s so pliable and warm. “Maybe I will. Maybe I just like being little better than a pirate.” Golden eyes dance as he looks at the boy, tugging his braid. “If I were a king, would you come play in my palace?”

 

Judal's eyes lid, all the more pleased, and he wriggles himself closer, lifting a hand to trail his fingers along the gold clinking about Sinbad's neck. "I could build you a palace, you know. Anywhere that you like."

 

" _Judal_."

 

The priest _twitches_ , and his head twists around to scowl at Ja'far. "You're ruining my fun. Hey, Sinbad," he quickly adds, looking back up at the man with a pout, "don't you have a nice room you can take me to, so we can talk in private? My bodyguard's a pain and doesn't know how to have fun."

 

Ah, Sinbad is enjoying tonight more and more. Having a boy this lovely on his arm would be good in and of itself, but the fact that he’s making someone from Al-Sarmen hyperventilate every time he strokes a hand down Judal’s side is just hilarious. “I took the liberty of renting the finest room in the house,” he assures the boy, and gives Ja’far a wink. “Just in case I had company. Your bodyguard can stay and enjoy the party, he seems like the kind that _loves_ dancing with strangers.”

 

"Oh, he's the life of the party," Judal drawls, pawing a little bit at Sinbad's chest. "Show me then, show me!"

 

"Judal." This is his last attempt, and then he's done. If the wretch wants to get himself killed--ugh, well, he'll prevent it, but the events preluding it, he'll have no part of. "At least have some consideration as to Prince Kouen's--"

 

"Room," Judal _cheerfully_ demands. 

 

Fuck that. Ja'far is _done_. 

 

Ah, this boy is _bossy_. 

 

Sinbad likes that.

 

“I like a boy that knows what he wants,” he says with a grin, hand stealing down to give the priest’s ass a little pinch. “I guess if your guardian is really lonely, my first mate could always dance with him. Just so he doesn’t feel left out or anything.” A half-glance to Masrur, and he’s suddenly _there_ , looming over all of them. “Masrur, make sure this nice man is entertained properly while I have a little chat with the Oracle of Kou.”

 

“Understood.”

 

Sinbad wraps his arm tightly around Judal’s waist, and whisks him upstairs.

 

God _dammit_.

 

Ja'far breathes a slow, measured exhale through his teeth, eyes sharp as they land upon Masrur. "I can assure you, I have no intention of _interrupting_ them," he stiffly retorts. "I will merely be waiting until my charge is… returned to me." Kouen is going to _love_ this story. 

 

Masrur nods. He folds his arms, noting Ja’far’s distribution of weight, analyzing which way he’ll go in the event of any movement, and is satisfied. “Sin doesn’t kidnap,” he rumbles, hoping that will be some comfort.

 

Ja'far merely offers a snort at that. "If he did, he wouldn't want that one."

 

He'd _like_ to go up and sit outside of the bedroom. That would be the proper choice, and one far more conducive to his job, but listening to all of that for hours on end… pass. Instead, there's a wall to lean against just fine right here--all the better to stare down a Fanalis with, and not listen to one bratty Magi all night long.

 

Upstairs, Sinbad unlocks the door to the room, sweeping Judal inside and locking the door after. No sign of the assassin, which he chooses to take as good. He’s never met the assassin that could best Masrur, and doesn’t particularly want to--though part of his mind mutters that such a person would be _fun_ to fight. 

 

The room is furnished richly, and he sits immediately on the bed, tugging the priest down into his lap. “You summoned me for a conversation, did you not?”

 

Judal is pleased, infinitely so, to find himself in a warm, comfortable lap, even though his robes are annoying and getting in the way, and it would really be a lot easier to just hike them up and settle down properly that way. "Something like that," he murmurs, flopping his arms over Sinbad's shoulders, still marveling in the way that his magoi hums and churns and _overflows_ , even more so than Kouen's, and a dozen times warmer besides. "I've felt you for years now. I just wanted to _meet you_." 

 

“You felt me?” Sinbad grins, and pulls Judal close, hiking up the boy’s robes to make it easier on both of them. “Only fair that I return the favor.” He slides his hands up the boy’s back, then down again, cupping his ass and squeezing. “Unless--oh, that’s right, isn’t it forbidden to touch you?”

 

"Didn't mean felt you like _that_ , but… ahh… you can still… return the favor," Judal fairly purrs, letting himself sag forward with a content noise in the back of his throat. "Don't listen to Ja'far, he's a jerk. Creepy, too, never trust people with freckles."

 

“Sounds like a good plan,” Sinbad agrees easily, hefting the boy closer. “So….how does a priest of Kou like to be touched, hmm? Surely not like some _mortal_ man.” 

 

Sinbad is _warm_ , and really, really nice to lean against, what with his chest being so broad and strong. Judal exhales a sigh through his nose, butting his face into the man's neck. "However you wanna touch is good." _Just let me keep rolling around in your rukh._

 

There’s a sort of wild, innocent enjoyment, free of artifice, that Sinbad finds himself drawn to strongly in Judal, and he rolls them over, letting Judal’s hair spill out onto the ground as he brings the boy in for a kiss. 

 

A deep, slow kiss, Sinbad explores his mouth thoroughly, tasting him, feeling the trembling, slender strength of the boy’s body underneath his own. “You taste as good as you feel,” he murmurs. “Better than I expected from a priest.”

 

"Hate that title," Judal grumbles, though he can't be _too_ cranky, not when he has Sinbad above him and this is going _perfectly_ , just like he wanted it to. "I'm hardly a priest. They just call me that because of all my magic…" He sighs against Sinbad's mouth, reaching up to twist his fingers through Snbad's hair, marveling at the length of it. "You're _prettier_ than I expected. Really good."

 

Sinbad preens under the praise, shaking his hair free of its single tie that suffices to keep it out of his eyes when he’s on land. “I admit, you didn’t seem like a man of many gods to me. Do you want me to call you Judal, then?”

 

"Mmm, call me by name," Judal sighs, lurching up to nibble on Sinbad's lower lip, sucking it into his mouth with a pleased noise. " _I'm_ more a god than anything anyone believes in." 

 

The superstitious instinct of a sailor makes Sinbad want to flinch or shiver at such words, but he pushes that aside, kissing the boy again as he runs his hands down Judal’s sides. “Does your pet assassin let men touch you very often, Judal?” he asks, tangling a hand in the boy’s hair. “Or just kings and pirates?”

 

Judal's nose wrinkles, and he lets his head loll back into Sinbad's hand with a sigh. " _I'm_ picky," he murmurs, eyes lidding as he wriggles, hiking his robes up a little more to let Sinbad between his legs easier. "Don't want anyone unless they're strong enough--and you… I could feel you half-way across the _world_."

 

Sinbad’s grin is roguish, and Judal’s movement makes him lean down, dragging a thigh up between the boy’s legs. “And what do you like strong men to do to you, boy?” he breathes, leaning down to scrape his teeth over Judal’s neck.

 

A hard shiver, and Judal sinks down, his back arching to better squirm his hips up against that hard thigh. "Lots of things," he mumbles, eyes lidding. "Like it… when they just take what they want from me." 

 

Sinbad yanks the rest of Judal’s robes up, sliding a hand down to palm his cock, stroking it slowly, easily covering it with one broad, rough hand. “Do you like being held down?” he asks, pinning Judal’s hands over his head, an easy stroke of his hand enough to make himself hard too. “Do you like being fucked?”

 

This meeting, Judal hazily thinks, was a _good_ decision. 

 

Sinbad's hand is rough and calloused in _all_ the right ways, and makes him shudder as he lurches up, legs a wanton, eager splay. "Please," is his groan, his hands grabbing for the man's shoulders, clawing in mindlessly as he ruts up. "Want you to just…" Judal's breath hitches, and he licks his lower lip, huffing. "Just _use_ me." _Wanna feel if you're as hot inside me as you are just like this._

 

There’s a vial of sandalwood oil around his neck, fragrant and viscous as Sinbad uncorks it, pours it into his hand and slicks himself up, loathe to wait any longer when he’s got someone so nubile and lovely _wanting_ him, _needing_ him, _begging_ for him. “I hope,” he murmurs, “you’re going to look as pretty stuffed full of me as you do right now.” A good hard fuck never hurt anyone, and he positions himself between the boy’s legs, one hand wrapped around his cock to guide himself in one smooth slide, filling the boy’s tight hole.

 

It's far from the first time he's been fucked, but it _has_ to be the first time he's felt quite so _full_. Judal whines, a broken, mindless noise as his legs tremble, clamping tight about Sinbad's waist as his hands scrabble down his back, his body twitching, quivering from the effort of just _taking_ him, no matter how badly he wants it.

 

Whimpering, his head falls back, eyes squeezing shut and brow knitted as his body tries to lurch down, tries to wriggle himself further down that long, thick cock, and it sends a twinge up his spine, his mouth falling open with another squeaking moan leaving his throat. "R… really big," he breathes, voice ragged around the edges. "You're… ahh… _god_ …" 

 

Sinbad had been right. Judal _does_ look good stuffed full of cock, a little uncomfortable, a lot aroused, shocks of nervousness and desire and a hint of pain flickering over his expressive features. “Look at you,” he breathes, rolling his hips slowly, wanting to savor every instant of Judal being stretched around him, legs spread wide and trembling. “You really like this, huh? God, you feel _good_ \--” _I bet they don’t fuck you like this in Kou._

 

Judal _mewls_ , his head lolling back as his hands weakly dig into Sinbad's back, _trying_ to hold on when his world is reduced to nothing but _so full so hot god he's in so deep_. It's difficult, when even the arch of his back drives him mad, rutting his achingly hard cock against Sinbad's stomach, every twitch of his hips making Sinbad feel like he's that much _deeper_ , and that tense, trembling stretch is enough to make him sob.

 

"T…told you to just…" Judal swallows hard, his cheeks flushed, tears pricking into the corners of his eyes. "Just…. hold me down… f-fuck me, I--I wanna be your toy--"

 

Sinbad tightens his hand on Judal’s wrists, holding him in place as he slams in hard, wanting to force _screams_ out of the boy, wanting his precious little guardian to hear how well that pretty Magi is getting fucked. It’s not _hard_ , and his eyes lid at the sweet tight clench of Judal’s body as he moves harder and harder, head dipping down to bite Judal’s neck, down his chest to let his teeth tug hard at one pert nipple. “What a good boy,” he groans, thrusting in so hard his hips slap against Judal’s ass. “Be a good boy for me and come all over yourself, show me how much you love my cock.”

 

Judal can't remember _ever_ being fucked like this.

 

Even holding him down, even shoving him around and fucking him so hard that he _aches_ \--there's no part of it that doesn't feel good, that doesn't make his cock harder, and Judal gasps, twitching up with a shudder against those sharp teeth, the added pull on his nipple enough to make his eyes roll back. He doesn't think, just acts, little more than a mindlessly rutting animal as he writhes down onto Sinbad's cock, his legs splayed wide and desperate, hands curling into fists as he sobs and moans and cries, and it's a particularly achingly _deep_ thrust that makes him lose himself, groaning as he comes, spilling hot and slick between them and twitching with every weak, lingering _squirm_.

 

The twitching, helpless little _clench_ of Judal’s body combined with those _noises_ he’s making are enough to send a shock of white-hot pleasure up Sinbad’s spine, and he buries his face in Judal’s neck with an almighty groan, slamming in to the root when he comes, flooding Judal deep inside. He keeps moving, slowly, dragging every last spark of heat out of both of them, shuddering little grunts coming out from his lips with every shallow thrust, until finally his heartbeat starts to return to normal.

 

He releases Judal’s wrists _finally_ , bringing one down to his mouth and pressing a kiss to it. “Will your keeper let you stay the night?”

 

"Probably not," Judal dazedly manages, his fingers wiggling sort of out of his control. He's never quite felt like this before after sex, and it makes him sag back into the bed, smiling contently. "Bet he's outside of the door, trying to figure out if you've killed me or not. Ahhh, such a paaain."

 

“ _Annoying_ ,” Sinbad agrees, laying half-on the boy, wrapping an arm around his waist to pull him close. “I don’t sail weeks out of my way for just anyone, you know. You’re special. I could feel it back on my ship.”

 

Judal _likes_ hearing that, and the rumble that escape his throat is more akin to a purr than anything. "Wanna stay with you," he mumbles, butting his face into Sinbad's neck. "Hey, if you'll be my king, you can stay with me all the time."

 

“Oh?” Sinbad blinks, looking down. “What does it mean, to be your king?”

 

"You've never heard of Magi?" Judal's head tilts, his eyes wide and innocent. "We select a king that we think is strong enough to rule the world. You can have whatever you want--power, gold, women… between the two of us," he sighs, wriggling closer, "no one would be able to stop us, you're already so _strong_ \--"

 

"Judal. That's quite enough."

 

 _How_ Ja'far always manages to sneak into rooms unnoticed is beyond him, but Judal is past the point of jumping, more to the point of being _annoyed_. "You always ruin my fun!" he petulantly snaps, twisting in Sinbad's arms to glare at his bodyguard who seems content to linger by the door, less content to actually look at the sight on the bed. 

 

"This _pirate_ is hardly worthy of your attention. Come, I will have a bath prepared for you back at the--"

 

"No, I'm staying here!"

 

It's with great restraint that Ja'far doesn't rope and hogtie the little shit. 

 

“If the boy wants to stay here,” Sinbad says, eyes narrowed dangerously, “he’s staying here.”

 

At the sight of Masrur lumbering into view behind Ja’far, he relaxes marginally. If the assassin had killed Masrur, well, then there would be at least one fewer person leaving this room alive. “And you can be quiet for a minute,” he adds, turning to kiss up Judal’s jaw, wrapping the boy’s braid around his hand. “I’m thinking about a decision.”

 

"No," Ja'far flatly interrupts, "you are not."

 

Ja'far spares the Fanalis a sharp glance over his shoulder before simply striding forward, grabbing Judal by the ankle, and hauling him down to the foot of the bed and then onto his feet in short order. "We're going," he says, a swift yank on Judal's robes straightening them before he throws the brat over one shoulder, no matter his immediate kicking and shrieking. " _You_ ," he adds with a cold look shot in Sinbad's direction, "would do well to keep your distance." 

 

Sinbad is up in a second, Masrur shutting the door and standing in front of it like an implacable wall. Sinbad fights down his instinct to just _kill_ the man, calming himself before he does something they’ll all be paying for. “Judal,” he says quietly, power starting to crackle around his hands, gathering on the sword of Baal, “do you want me to kill this man?” There’s not a question in his mind that he can do it. There’s never been a man he couldn’t kill yet.

 

"Do others tell you your arrogance is charming?" is the assassin's bored retort. 

 

Judal flops over Ja'far's shoulder, huffing out a long breath as he lays there. "I just wanna spend the _night_ \--"

 

"No. Prince Kouen will already be less than pleased to hear about your _solicitations_." It isn't as if Ja'far has to report anything to the man--he doesn't work for _Kouen_ , after all. It's just that the threat is the most effective on the brat, and in this case, it certainly ceases any lingering struggling as Judal goes still. He spares another glance the Fanalis, another back to the pirate. What a headache. 

 

"… Fine," is Judal's eventual, entirely unhappy reply. "I'm _going_. Sinbaaad, I wanna see you tomorrow," he plaintively whines, reaching a hand out. 

 

Sinbad hesitates. He doesn’t _want_ to let them go, wants more than anything to be the one leaving here with Judal over his shoulder, leaving only the smoldering corpse of the assassin behind. He reaches out, squeezing Judal’s hand, bringing it close for a kiss. “I’ll be here tomorrow,” he promises. “Ask me again, and I’ll say yes.”

 

He turns his eyes to the assassin, narrowing them. “And if you’re not here, I’ll come looking for you.”

 

He nods to Masrur, and the Fanalis stands aside, opening the door. From the looks of it, he doesn’t look much more pleased than Sinbad does, but his gaze is on the assassin, not the boy.

 

"Yeah. Okay." Judal seems at least somewhat mollified, if not now apprehensive about the idea of asking again, and Ja'far calls that a success. He ignores Sinbad's threat outright, stepping past Masrur without another glance. Knowing Judal, and what the brat has in mind now, it's probably best to leave by morning whether he likes it or not. Sinbad can come looking all he damn well pleases.

 

Three days later, Sinbad climbs back on board the _Sindria_ , tying his hair into several knots against the wind. His jaw is set, his eyes narrowed as he rubs kohl onto his eyelids. Ten strides, and he’s at the prow, looking back at his navigator. “Set course.”

 

“Where to, Captain?”

 

“Kou.”

 

~~

 

Judal has been a wretch, at best, since returning from his _visitation_ with Sinbad.

 

Ja'far finds himself relieved that returning back to Kou was an uneventful thing, though he doubts that will last. Judal has a way of drawing trouble to him, even in smaller doses, and though Ja'far tries as he might to mitigate such issues, there's always _something_. Locking the brat up in his bedroom is only a start.

 

Avoidance is key within the Kou Empire's Imperial Palace, especially on a day that _everyone_ seems to be home. Ja'far answers to none of the royal family, though it's often in his best interest to follow their _suggestions_.

 

Today, he has a few suggestions for _Kouen_ , though. 

 

"Pay your Magi a visit." It's the 'greeting' he offers upon stepping into view within Kouen's study, eyes sharp in the dim light. "I believe he is what you would call lonely, judging by his propensity towards causing disaster as of late." Ja'far pauses, gaze sweeping about. "Also, light a candle in here, you will ruin your eyesight." 

 

Kouen blinks, startled at Ja’far’s sudden presence. Damn it, now he’ll never remember the words to that song, and the ones he’d already remembered slip away like sand through his fingers. “What?” he asks, finally paying attention. “Did you say Judal?”

 

A low, exasperated noise escapes. "Yes. _Your Magi_. Pay him a visit." 

 

Kouen waves a hand. “Tomorrow.” Maybe she’s already waiting for him outside. Maybe she’ll have flowers in her hair, and let him sniff their delicate perfume. “Busy tonight.”

 

Everyone in this family is a bunch of romantic slackasses. Ja'far exhales a slow, measured breath. "It isn't something that can wait. He attempted to solicit another _king_." 

 

At that, Kouen frowns. “Another king? Who? Not Yuu or Ren, they haven’t even conquered a dungeon. No, wait, that’s right, you went somewhere with him.” He tilts his head, thinking. “Balbadd?”

 

"He requested an audience with a low-born ship captain--or should I say, a _pirate_ that you might know the name of," Ja'far coolly returns, stepping closer to Kouen's desk. "Sinbad. Remember, the reason why your cousins do not have a conquered dungeon underneath their belts?" 

 

At that name, the red fog sweeps over him, clearing away the last of the moonlight and cobwebs. “Sinbad the pirate? He _didn’t!_ ” He stands from the desk, sweeping his cloak out over his shoulders. Hakuei will just have to wait.

 

"Judal did. In spades." Ja'far snorts, relieved that he finally has the prince's attention. "Had I not stepped in when I did, Sinbad would have accepted his offer. Did you know that man has a Fanalis at his side? I thought they were only in Laem these days, or with slave traders." 

 

Kouen rounds on the slight man, murder in his eyes. “You are supposed to be his keeper! How could you let something like this happen? Do you think your masters will be _pleased_ to hear that you almost gave away their prize to an uncultured brigand?”

 

Ja'far stares up at him, impassive. "'Almost' does not mean that I _did_. Forgive me, Your Highness, but are you not the one that always tells me to _humor_ your Oracle?" 

 

“With sweets and outings that he wants,” Kouen snaps, “not with meeting commoners and trying to give away the world! Tell me where he is, I want to teach him a lesson.”

 

Remarkable, that Kouen can be such an idiot when it comes to dealing with the brat, especially when Ja'far hardly considers himself an expert on interpersonal relationships. "That's hardly advised. The problem was dealt with, and he has been returned and is properly held within his chambers--if you want to visit him, I suggest an _affectionate_ visit, so this doesn't happen again. I believe he was mostly trying to get your attention." 

 

Kouen slams his hand down on the desk, the books jumping under the sudden motion. He’s on the verge of throwing something through the wall, hopefully _Ja’far_ , and it’s only with the greatest effort that he doesn’t. “When I want your opinion, Assassin, I’ll ask for it.”

 

It isn’t worth the paperwork or the annoyance of actually hurting the man--he’s The Assassin of Al-Sarmen for a reason, and this doesn’t feel like one of Kouen’s particularly good days--so Kouen leaves him behind, stalking off to confront the Magi.

 

By the time he gets to Judal’s door, he’s calmed somewhat, at least enough to pretend to himself that it was his own idea to make Judal feel petted and prized. “Judal? It’s En, are you in there?”

 

Slowly, the lock turns and the door cracks open, producing a decidedly _pouty_ Magi peering up at Kouen through the messy fall of his bangs. "You're not here to yell at me, are you? Everyone's been mad at me all day, and I didn't even _do_ anything." 

 

Kouen’s stomach unclenches. Judal looks _sad_ , and that’s never anything he likes seeing. “I’m not here to yell at you,” he assures the Magi, reaching out to brush back his bangs. “Want to go out? Or have a drink in here? I missed you.” He sort of _has_ , much to his own surprise. Judal’s the only one whose eyes don’t glaze over when he talks about the things he likes, and is always up for mischief with him.

 

Immediately, Judal brightens, and he reaches up to grab at Kouen's hand lest the man somehow be inclined to change his mind. "Really? Can we go out? _Without_ Ja'far?" he quickly adds, scowling. "He's _mean_. He ruined my fun and made me come home early--but it's okay, I missed you a lot, too." 

 

“Of course we can go without Ja’far.” Kouen tousles Judal’s hair again, tugging him out the door and down the front steps of the palace before Ja’far can hear and start following them. “He’s just around to make sure you don’t die, but I can protect you just fine. You want to go flying?”

 

"It's not like I'd die, anyway--I'm a _Magi_ , I'm way more powerful than him," Judal huffs, latching himself firmly to Kouen's arm. "We can go flying, or we can go into the city and maybe eat something… ahhh, I'm hungry, can we get those little candied peaches again? Oh, did you know that there's someone that's conquered more dungeons than you for _real?_ It's not just a story," he hushedly adds, eyes shining. "Do you want to go and conquer another one? We can do it, right now." 

 

Kouen makes a face at that. “You’re going to make me jealous, and then I’m going to get mad,” he warns. “Let’s just go into the city and eat as many candied peaches as we can find until I have to roll you home, I don’t want to get all my armor on tonight. Maybe tomorrow. Did you finally raise one that stupid pirate didn’t conquer?”

 

Judal pouts. "I don't want you to be _jealous_ , I'm just telling you so you know. I want you to be the strongest, you know," he sighs, cheek rubbing into Kouen's shoulder. "And I can raise one right there, when you're standing there, and he won't have a _chance_ to come and conquer it."

 

It sounds a lot like winning a race while the other man has weights strapped to him, but Kouen’s stopped being picky about that kind of thing. “Tomorrow,” he promises, wrapping an arm around Judal’s shoulders, turning to give his head a kiss. “I missed you, everyone’s so annoying when you’re away.”

 

"Tomorrow," Judal happily agrees, and loosens his hold on Kouen just a bit, now convinced he isn't going to run off. "I'm good company, we can go do things you wanna do, too… but being rolled home after eating lots of peaches sounds really good right now." 

 

“Then let’s go eat the peach-seller out of house and home,” Kouen suggests, “then you can come with me to the Imperial Palace. Ei’s waiting for me tonight, we can all have a picnic.”

 

"Good, really good," Judal cheerfully replies, and it's with a wave of his hand that he summons a magic carpet, hauling Kouen up onto it in short order. "Let's go, then!" 

 

~

 

Koumei doesn’t knock so much as he leans on the door until it opens, holding out his hand to Ja’far. “Brought you a present. Heard about Judal, thought you might need a smoke.”

 

Ja'far can tell without even looking that the Kou Empire's Fourth Prince is high as a bloody kite. 

 

That being said, Ja'far rarely will look a gift horse in the mouth--at least, if that gift horse is one that he _knows_. But still--"It better not be what you have been partaking in all afternoon," he curtly replies, eyeing Koumei skeptically. 

 

Koumei gives him a slow, beatific smile. “No worries. I’m not sharing. This is the new shipment from Laem, your favorite. Or,” he adds, raising an eyebrow and sinking slightly down the door, “I could keep it all to myself if you don’t want it…”

 

"Hand it over." Even as he says that, Ja'far rises, grabbing the prince by the arm to haul him into the room so the isn't splayed out on the floor and partially into the hallway. "I'm not _your_ keeper," he flatly points out. "Try to keep some wits about you. Did you hear if Kouen attended to the priest or not?" 

 

“I hear everything. They went out talking about dungeons and peaches.” Koumei hands over the pipe and bag, content to be hauled around.

 

Ja'far supposes that's _something_ , so long as Judal is preoccupied and has an eye kept on him. The thought of _dungeons_ makes him twitch, though, and he can't quite stuff and light his pipe fast enough once he has Koumei thrown onto the nearest piece of furniture. "And what other news have you heard? No reports of foreign ships attempting to sneak their way into Kou harbors, I hope." 

 

“Not quite,” Koumei says, muffled into a loveseat before slowly rolling to the side. It takes two tries before he’s actually facing Ja’far. “Doubled my spies at every port when I heard you’d been dancing with a pirate. Put some on places that aren’t ports, paid off the pirates we know to tell me things, everything. Then I smoked,” he ends, with a little sigh that turns into something of a giggle. “Stress.”

 

"I was not dancing with a pirate." The thought that he'd even entertain Sinbad for five seconds is enough to make his skin crawl, and Ja'far frowns, taking a long drag from the pipe to banish that disgusting thought. Lazy, lowborn trash. "So long as you haven't heard anything yet, that gives us time. I have no doubts he will be attempting to chase after us. He seemed… quite enamored, with Judal." 

 

“Judal likes people being enamored of him,” Koumei murmurs. “s’easy to be enamored when he’s got your dick in his mouth. Oh, right, not you, though. He told me you haven’t ever.”

 

Koumei really is tiresome when he's like this. Ja'far blows a slow, annoyed stream of smoke in his direction. "I have no interest in prepubescent boys, unlike someone I know." 

 

Koumei makes a face, but otherwise ignores the dig. It’s none of Ja’far’s business anyway. “Tell me about the pirate. How many other pirates, what’s their strength? I’ve looked at reports and stuff, they’re always gone before anyone can count them right.”

 

"I had very little time to access his crew." Regrettable, that, and he's already been chided for his hastiness, but getting Judal _away_ from the man was far more important at the time. "He does have a Fanalis under his employ. There's no telling who else he has on that ship." 

 

“A Fanalis is no great issue, if you know he’s coming. Did you sense much magic?” Boring, and stupid, that he’s wasting his high on talking strategy, Koumei muses, not quite aware when he’d let his head hang off the side of the love seat, or his feet start walking up the wall. “Any magicians?”

 

"From the pirate king himself, but he's only a dungeon capturer. Manageable enough, no matter how many dungeons he has underneath his belt." Ja'far barely spares Koumei's antics a glance, far more content to enjoy his own pipe. The wonders it does for his stress headaches, honestly. "No magicians that I saw, anyway. I doubt he carts them around on his boat, either." 

 

“No matter how many dungeons he has,” Koumei points out, “he can only equip one at a time. Like a man owning several swords, he’s no more formidable than a man who wields one properly. Could you kill him?”

 

"Yes." The reply is delivered without hesitation, and Ja'far leans back, contemplative. "Especially without my usual charge to keep an eye on simultaneously. Otherwise, I would have killed him already." 

 

Koumei nods, and it makes the blood pump oddly in his head, so he swivels around to lay properly on the love seat again. “Then he’s just a man. Boring. Just set his ship on fire when it comes into harbor, and he’s not even a captain.” He blinks at Ja’far. “How sure are you that he’s coming?”

 

That _would_ be satisfying, wouldn't it? Ja'far makes a note to do just that. "Men are predictable, so yes, he's coming. Judal made him an offer and I'm certain he wants to claim it." 

 

Koumei snorts. “I’ve heard he’s bold, but to sail into Kou to try and steal our prized Oracle? He’s got to be stupid or a lot more powerful than you say he is.” He’s starting to get cold now, and he tugs a blanket over himself, suddenly very discontent with how alone he is on the love seat. “Men aren’t that predictable. If they were, he wouldn’t even exist.”

 

"I'm sure he thinks himself quite powerful, but that doesn't mean I couldn't kill him. And you," Ja'far dismisses, tipping the ash from his pipe to refill it, "of all people, should know how predictable _men_ are. Sinbad seems to be one a slave to his vices, if all the rumors are true, and he proved it well enough in one night. If he arrives, then he will be dealt with, plain and simple." 

 

“Nothing wrong with vices,” Koumei says mildly, “if you keep them in their proper place.” He stretches, enjoying the little pleasurable tingles in his arms and legs. “You have nice legs,” he notices, with a slight frown. “Why do you always keep them covered? You’re not exactly _shy_.”

 

Ja'far contemplates tipping hot ash onto Koumei next. Then again, burning princes is generally frowned upon. "Why are you looking at my legs in the first place?" 

 

“I was upside down,” Koumei points out logically. “They’re pretty nice. Is it a modesty thing?”

 

"I wasn't aware it was a crime to wear pants, Your Highness." Ah, yes, because he truly wants another prying eye looking upon the proof of some of his greatest failures, all compounded into one. "If you're done with your report, I can call a servant to escort you back to your rooms." 

 

Koumei rolls his eyes. “If I thought you were going to be pissy about it I wouldn’t have brought it up, forget it.” He lets his legs slide down to the floor, slowly managing to get upright. “I’ll make it back myself, don’t worry. The worst that can happen is I fall down in the hall and people walk on me.” Which doesn’t sound _too_ bad, all things considered.

 

Ja'far just stares at him, exhaling more smoke. "If that's your cup of tea, do be sure to drink it a good distance from here." This _family_. All of them are damnably strange.

 

“Not to worry. I’ll have my tea in my room,” Koumei drawls with a lazy grin. “And not alone.” He slips out the door, meandering back to what’s (hopefully) waiting for him in his bed.

 

~~

 

Ja'far did not become _Assassin_ courtesy of poor planning.

 

He can count on one hand the mistakes he's made in his years of serving Al-Sarmen's cause. He can count on both legs and on his back the times that those mistakes were worthy of punishment--all foolish, disobedient moves, fully deserving of the ugly scars he bears. He rather deserves the looks of pity, or odd, disgusted awe over the marks whenever he bears his skin to another. It's a reminder, if nothing else, of what he should do to prevent even more of those scars, to prevent another moment where he sits bloody and cold on a stone floor, sewing up his own legs like a rag doll. 

 

It's why he's been careful, preparing for Sinbad's arrival.

 

Perhaps Koumei thinks the pirate less than predictable, or even too powerful for them to handle, but Ja'far knows better. He's met the man in person, and regarded him with scorn then, even a few paces away. That being said, he isn't to be taken too lightly, no more likely than Kouen should be on a given day, with all of his djinns at his disposal and a wealthy supply of magoi to draw upon. 

 

Sinbad comes, predictably, and blazes through the first wave they send out, soldiers and Al-Sarmen magicians alike. It's to buy time, a distraction when Sinbad waltzes up to the palace, and Ja'far leaves Kouen to wait for him.

 

"I'll be back," is his low promise in Kouen's ear, a cold stare fixed upon Sinbad for all of a second before he's a blur lost in the sand, the long swish of his hair flipping over his shoulder and brushing a tanned cheek the last touch he offers Kou's Second Prince.

 

The _Sindria_ \--a stupidly arrogant name for a ship, Ja'far thinks, upon setting eyes on it. Ja'far has to wonder if the pirate tries to make all things bear a portion of his name as a method of boosting his own ego. No matter. Burning it should land a decent blow, and make that ego feel a nice, solid _sting_. 

 

Masrur is glad, at first, to see the assassin.

 

They can talk, he thinks. He’s had a few things he wants to hear, and he thinks he knows fairly well where the man is coming from. There are some questions the Captain probably won’t take the time to ask, knowing his policy regarding Al-Sarmen, and Masrur wants answers, for Sin’s sake.

 

So when he sees the assassin, at first, he’s glad. Even if the man is here to kill him or Sin, that’s just a job. It’s nothing personal, no more than it’s personal when they occasionally fight back a lot harder than they need to, when an enemy ship tries to board them, ravaging it for supplies.

 

Then he sees what the man carries, and everything changes.

 

The _Sindria_ is Masrur’s home. Yes, it’s Sinbad’s transportation, most prized possession, weapon of choice, but it’s also his home, Masrur’s home, the home of everyone who sails under Sinbad’s flag.

 

So it’s just a matter of stopping him.

 

It’s not the first time Masrur has stopped an assassin. He’d come out of the first encounter with one startled and wounded, and Sinbad had given him excellent advice at his bedside, helpfully attacking him off-guard for the next year until he got used to how fast the first strike would come. Speed is his enemy here, and with Al-Sarmen it’s always a mistake to give them a way out, or to assume they won’t tear their own bound arms off in order to escape.

 

Masrur looks down the dock, and nods once. Before the assassin can see him, he moves, bracing a foot against the ground and _shoving_ , using every ounce of that speed to take him to the assassin’s side. In the same movement, he wraps an arm securely around the man’s slender waist from behind and lets out all his strength, driving his fist down at the ground, dragging the man with him into the ensuing sinkhole.

 

The problem with planning is there's always that chance to leave something out. Worse, the problem _here_ is it isn't _Sinbad_ who is the unpredictable one.

 

It's so _ridiculous_ that he doesn't even have the mind to process it until his back hits the ground, a solid _thump_ that takes the breath out of him for all of a second before he lunges, twists and _snarls_ as he wrenches himself free of the Fanalis's hold--or, more accurately, squirms his way free all too like a snake before shoving a blade underneath Masrur's chin, chest still heaving from the breath he hasn't quite caught. 

 

"I will _gladly_ burn you with your captain's ship, should you continue to hinder me," Ja'far lowly hisses, a twitching jerk of his head sending the _obnoxious_ tail of his hair over his shoulder and out of his face again. "Now keep your distance while I let myself _out_ of this little prison you think you've devised." 

 

 Masrur nods in agreement, standing back to let the assassin try and climb out of a circular hole maybe fifty feet deep. Then, the second he has the slightest opening, he places one big hand on the assassin’s chest and slams him to the ground, holding him down with a bare hint of strength. He lays a leg across the man’s arms, then slams his other hand into the wall, sending it crumbling down in giant rocks on top of them, taking each blow to his head and back in stride, crouching over the assassin to make sure he’s shielded from the worst of the debris.     

 

 When the dust settles, they’re alone, in a hole almost large enough to stand up in, about two paces across in any direction.     

 

 Masrur doesn’t move.  

 

Instinct bids him to _kill_. 

 

Through the settling dust, Ja'far can see Masrur clearly-- _very_ clearly, in fact, and his sight wants to immediately focus on the thud of his pulse in his neck, or any other major arteries that would be so pleasant to sever right then. 

 

The unfortunate thing about it all is that he can't move, and the slightest twitch of his muscles to test exactly how much leeway he has proves he has absolutely _none_. 

 

_Damn it._

 

Ja'far sees red, and it takes a long moment before he can tell himself not to hyperventilate, to not gnash his teeth and spit and snarl and squirm to get away, hoping to land a stab or slice or three in the process. It would be one thing if he had some sort of _distance_ on this Fanalis. There would be no contest, and he'd be _dead_ , but in close quarters, it's something else entirely. 

 

Also, he's held down like a pinned bug, and _that_ does everything but wonders for his temper. 

 

"… You," he slowly, _calmly_ begins, "are going to release me. _Right now_." 

 

Masrur is quiet for a moment, as if pondering his answer. Then, at last he says, “No.”

 

A flare of _anger_ makes him lurch up--a bad idea, when it sort of makes one of his ribs crack. "Let me _go_ ," is Ja'far's low snarl, "or I'll skin the meat from your bones. What do you _want?_ " Of course he _wants_ something, otherwise he would have allowed him to be killed far before now.

 

The question doesn’t make quite sense, so simple is the (obvious, to Masrur) answer. “You were going to burn my home. I didn’t want you to. So you are here.”

 

Ja'far's eyes narrow to slits. "Your _captain_ brought that on himself. Now release me, and let me deal with him accordingly."

 

“No.” He’d thought it was a simple enough answer, but apparently this man thinks he can change Masrur’s mind by giving him more orders. That’s an interesting idea. Not a particularly accurate one.

 

Ja'far rather wishes the idiot was holding him by an arm or a leg. He'd chew it off in an instant and be _done with this_. "So, what?" he mockingly snaps back. "You intend to keep me here for how long, exactly? Your captain's blood is spilling on the palace steps right about now. A lot of good it's doing you."

 

“You’re very angry,” Masrur says quietly, “for someone who isn’t going anywhere. You’re using up all the air.”

 

 _And whose fault is that, exactly?_ Ja'far's teeth set themselves into a grind. "Perhaps I wouldn't be so _angry_ if you weren't holding me down," he lowly retorts. Of all the ways he expected to die, this was not among them. 

 

“If I don’t hold you down, you’ll kill me and leave,” Masrur points out. “I don’t see why I shouldn’t hold you down.”

 

"Because I am going to find a way to kill you, regardless. It all depends on _how quickly_." 

 

Masrur thinks that over for a moment, then nods. “If you’re going to kill me no matter what,” he says logically, “then I’ll just keep you away from my Captain as long as I can.”

 

Ja'far wonders if he can somehow slit his own throat to end the inconvenience of it all, sooner rather than later.

 

It isn't going to matter much what Al-Sarmen does to his corpse if he dies down in this hole, but it's more the principle of the matter. He _hates_ losing. He hates being trapped, and he hates _anyone_ that manages to get some sort of upper hand, this Fanalis included in _spades_. 

 

" _Fine._ Release me," he lowly tries again, "and it won't be your death that I seek." _Not yet, anyway_. "You've made it nigh impossible for me to escape, and I am of little use _dead_ , so I'll make a point of not hyperventilating in this little cage you've devised." 

 

Masrur looks at the man very carefully. It’s times like these that he wishes Sin were around to tell him for sure; he’s so much better at understanding the true nature of a person, Masrur’s seen it time and time again. “Just remember,” he says, and withdraws his hand, shifting back to let the smaller man up, “I can get us out of here in an instant. And I won’t do it for a threat on my life.”

 

Ja'far immediately contemplates digging. His hand slaps back against the side of the hole, lips twisting into a scowl. The earth is too hard for any sort of _effective_ attempt at that. "If I wanted you dead," he lowly retorts, eyes flickering back to Masrur, "you would have been dead already, rest assured." 

 

Masrur settles into a kneeling position, watching the assassin impassively. Such an _angry_ man, but he doesn’t seem cruel, and he at least hadn’t tried to kill him immediately after saying he wouldn’t. Maybe he hadn’t needed Sinbad’s advice after all. He closes his eyes, and immediately realizes what’s so irritating and threatening about the man--even Masrur’s nose can’t smell a thing, beyond the background fragrances of his clothing and all the smells clinging to it. To a Fanalis, it’s as if he’s not even truly alive.

 

It would be better, Ja'far darkly thinks, if he _did_ start breathing heavily and use up all of their air. The more he thinks on it, the better that sounds, considering if he _survives_ and something has happened to _any_ of his charges--

 

_You better act like half the warrior you claim to be for once, Kouen, and not some idle-minded fool._

 

Well, he's fucked. "Hundreds of men would kill to have me cornered," he irritably tosses to Masrur all the same, "and you intend to merely sit and stare at me, rather than attempt to peel any information from my bones. To what do I owe this honor?" 

 

Masrur blinks. “I’m not an interrogator. I wasn’t trying to get anything from you. I just didn’t want you burning my home.”

 

Fantastic. It's going to be a _boring_ wait to his death. "And yet your esteemed captain is undoubtedly doing the same to my charges'," Ja'far lowly retorts, "when they incited none of it. Do you think him so much more honorable?" 

 

“Yes.”

 

Ah. Red flashes before his eyes again. He is so very _done_.

 

Probably, Sinbad is that much more of an honorable man. Ja'far doesn't care. In fact, he's never given a damn about honor, or at least, he hasn't for at least a decade and a half now. It's the sheer, frustrating fact that he is _here_ that riles his blood more than anything, and it's a dagger that he draws rather than his customary blades, lurching forward with as much speed as he can gather in such tight quarters to have the thing at Masrur's neck.

 

Masrur doesn’t move.

 

Rather, Masrur _hardly_ moves.

 

It doesn’t take much movement to bring his hand up, holding it nearly extended, wrapped loosely around the assassin’s neck. Humans are so much more breakable than earth, something Masrur’s always been ambivalent about. “So, that’s what your word is worth,” he says quietly, not moving, feeling the thrum of the man’s pulse under his skin.

 

"Kill me, then," Ja'far flatly snaps back, eyes sharply narrowed. His breath doesn't so much as hitch, no matter how he know, very well, how quickly Masrur could snap his neck. "If you are so surprised about the worth of my word, then Sinbad employs far more idiots than I thought. Think about who I _am_ , boy." 

 

“I don’t know who you are.” Masrur hesitates for a moment, then drops his arm. One of them has to break the stalemate, either by giving way or killing the other, so speeding it along is for the best. “Show me.”

 

Ja'far's fingers twitch from the effort it takes not to dive at the Fanalis's throat yet again.

 

The dagger finds its way buried into the earth instead, a slow, measured hiss escaping from between Ja'far's teeth. _Sinbad_ is the idiot, then. It's for the best, really, if he doesn't know who or what he's dealing with before marching into Kou, but it does him little good if he's trapped in a hole. "The Assassin, Ja'far," he cooly introduces himself. "At current, I am assigned here, and your captain has decided to lay hand upon my current post. You can see why this is a problem." 

 

“Not really.” Masrur leans back, back resting against the wall. “If he’s your task, why not just let Sinbad kill him? Less work.”

 

Ja'far snorts at that. "I highly doubt Sinbad has interest in _killing_ the Oracle, unless I am greatly misunderstanding our last meeting," he retorts. "That being said, my task is to keep him alive and residing safely within Kou. He belongs to this empire, not your captain."

 

“Ah. My mistake. I thought you said you were the Assassin.”

 

"And because of that, there is no one more qualified to protect the Oracle of Kou." _No matter how loathsome of a task it tends to be_. Ja'far's head cocks. "Does your captain tell you nothing, or is he just as unaware?" Hilarious, if that's the case, considering how obvious they've been about it. "The Kou Empire has long enlisted the services of my group. The Oracle is merely one of its many perks." 

 

Masrur nods slowly. “They must put a great deal of trust in you.” Long, long ago, Sinbad had told him with a grin that people would be more eager to tell him things if he kept his mouth shut and acted like a simpleton. Yet again, Sin had been right.

 

"They expect me to do my job. Let me out of this hole to do it, and I'll spare your life." 

 

Masrur doesn’t move. He’d said before that his life isn’t worth passage out of this hole, and whether Ja’far believes him or not, he hadn’t been joking. There are more important things in life than fighting to keep it--Sin had taught him that. It still applies, even when Sin isn’t here.

 

 _Loyalty_ , then--that would almost be cute, if Ja'far gave a damn. "Fine, then." He wrenches the dagger from the ground, and promptly turns to begin using it as a chisel. 

 

Sinbad is wrong. A lot of the time, he says Masrur doesn’t have a sense of humor. That’s wrong.

 

He sure finds this funny.

 

He sits back, unsmiling, and waits.

 

Even without the sun as a guide, Ja'far can easily calculate the passage of time. _Too long_ , his mind screams at him when he's only chiseled out a small hole in the wall, no matter how dust from the effort makes him fight back sneezing and his hands seem inclined to blister from the amount of _force_ it takes to drive a knife into hard earth. His teeth grind, sweat beading on his brow, and there's that distinct feeling that he's being _laughed at_ , something he never appreciates. 

 

He throws the dagger, and it buries itself into the earth just to the side of Masrur's head. "Am I _entertaining you?_ " 

 

“Yes.” Masrur pauses, then adds, “Thank you.”

 

Ja'far wants to _scream_. "What, exactly, do you think you're accomplishing through all of this?" he fairly snarls, whirling back around to face the other man. "How long do you intend to _keep me_ here? You've said it yourself--the air could easily run out, is it worth your own pathetic _life?"_

 

“Is it worth yours?” Ah, the assassin--sorry, The Assassin--is getting angry again, _really_ angry.

 

"Considering it seems to be your prerogative to kill me either way, what the hell does it matter?" Ja'far snaps. "Release me, inform me of whatever _point_ there is to keeping me here, or I'll _speed this along_." 

 

“I’m not trying to kill you.” Masrur says it as if it’s obvious, and it _is_. He hadn’t had to come in the hole _with_ the assassin, after all. “I wanted to talk to you. Then I saw the matches, so I wanted to keep you away from the ship. That’s all.”

 

" _Talk_ to me--" Oh, that's laughable. "Then go ahead and talk to me, Fanalis. Stop wasting our time." 

 

Masrur takes long minutes, choosing his words carefully. “Do you believe in the mission of Al-Sarmen?”

 

It's hardly the question he _expects_. More likely, always, are questions about Al-Sarmen logistics, to which Ja'far tends to roll his eyes. This, though… this is a bit humorous still, and Ja'far snorts, sagging back into the little indentation he's made for himself. "I serve my masters well. It's all of little consequence to me, so long as my work is completed to their specifications."

 

Masrur nods. Maybe Sin was wrong again, and he _is_ getting better at reading people, because it’s about the answer he’d expected. He thinks about it, about what kind of person this Ja’far must be--not ambitious, but dedicated. Not personable, but efficient. “Why did you choose them to be your masters?”

 

"They seemed to think I was qualified." Odd, for so much interest in _him_. Ja'far finds that a dozen times more annoying than any sort of usual interrogation.

 

“So you were looking for masters?”

 

Ja'far stares back at him impassively. "Not particularly. I was taken in from the streets. It was work, so I did it. Do you ask every one of my comrades how they came into their position?" 

 

“No. Sin usually kills them before I have a chance.”

 

"Pleasant." _I would enjoy seeing him attempt to kill me._

 

“Why not leave?” Masrur stares at the man, watching him deflect, snap sarcastically, fidget.

 

"Do I give the impression that I loathe my work so very much?" Well, he supposes he _does_ detest parts of it, primarily acting as a babysitter. "I have no desire to leave." 

 

“It isn’t that you seem like you loathe it. It’s that you seem like you don’t care.”

 

Ja'far's head tilts. "And you think I have something to care about outside of following orders."

 

Masrur absorbs that for a minute, then carefully says, “People must seem very strange to you.”

 

"In general, yes. And stupid."

 

Masrur mostly just thinks they’re silly and loud, except Sin and the crew. Sin always knows what’s appropriate, and always understands what people are feeling. He’d definitely be better at this, but Masrur is the only one in the hole with the assassin. “So why serve anyone?” _Don’t just tell me you don’t have a choice, I think you’re smarter and more alive than that._

 

"It's easier to stay busy than to lay down and die." Ja'far's eyebrows slowly raise. "Al-Sarmen just happens to have quite a bit of work to be done, and appreciate my efficiency." 

 

Masrur nods slowly. Now, he understands. “I was like that. Before I met Sin.”

 

Ja'far thinks he's starting to understand the line of questioning now. "Lovely. Good for you. He seems like a decidedly worthless wretch, I'm so glad he could bring value to your life."

 

“So am I.” Masrur can’t quite figure out how to say what he’d intended, so he falls silent again, watching the assassin.

 

Or _not_.

 

Ja'far can't quite stop the annoyed sigh from escaping. "What do you want from me?" he bluntly asks. 

 

That’s a good question. Masrur isn’t quite sure of the answer. “We’ve been...killing people from Al-Sarmen for a while, now,” he says slowly. “They all want to die for their cause, and they love killing for it. You seemed different. I wanted to know why.”

 

"Did it ever occur to you that maybe I have enough assignments on my plate, and killing anyone extra or for fun merely makes more unnecessary work and trouble for myself?" That's only half of it, honestly, but Masrur needn't know that. Ja'far has equally little desire to die for any _cause_. If he's going to die, it would be best to avoid anything terribly melodramatic, after all. 

 

Masrur looks up, meeting his eyes. “Is that the answer?” he asks, voice quiet and serious. Sin uses vocal tricks like that sometimes, asking _Would you really think I’m the kind of person who’d do something like that?_ Or _What would you say if I asked you to ask me a question?_ , things that tie his brain in knots. Masrur is hardly slow, but Sinbad’s mind gallops a thousand miles a minute, and he sometimes forgets that he doesn’t _need_ to trick his crew into doing what he wants, he can just _order_ them. Then again, most people seem to find his antics amusing.

 

Annoying.

 

Annoying as Koumei poking the issue about his legs, or Kouen's flirtations, or Judal whining, telling him to be _fun_ for a change. It gives Ja'far headaches, all of it. _Work_ is much easier, much simpler, and he doesn't feel anywhere near as tired by the end of it as he does actually dealing with _living_ people. 

 

"… Does it bother you so much," he eventually drawls, stretching his legs out carefully, "to think that I don't need _saving_? That I have no desire to follow your captain around?"

 

Masrur blinks. “I don’t think he’d want you to. He doesn’t like Al-Sarmen. I’m just trying to figure out why you’re different from the rest of them.”

 

"Good, because I don't like him." Ja'far snorts, dismissive. "You've answered your own question already. I don't _care_. Killing isn't a sport, it's a job." 

 

“But you don’t serve a company, or a king. You serve a cause.”

 

"I answer the orders handed down to me." He looks at Masrur, annoyed. "You're very tiresome. It isn't so complicated as you think."

 

Masrur nods slowly. “I think you’re right. I was seeing more than there was to you.”

 

"Considering I make a habit of blending in with the sand, that is more than likely true." Ja'far holds out his hand. "Give me my dagger back. If you're quite finished, I'm going to go back to digging." 

 

Masrur pulls the dagger out of the wall, looks at it for a minute, then bends it into a U-shape. “No.”

 

So taken by surprise is he that his jaw drops for a second before he catches himself, seething. "Do you think that's the only one I have on my person?" Ja'far grinds out, even though he's less than inclined to ruin his wired blades by burying them in the dirt, and the other dagger strapped to his thigh was a gift on a mostly-guessed birthday, far more suited to flesh than chipping away at earth and stone. Not that it matters particularly, because given the situation, they're all better than nothing, but--

 

At least the indentation he's managed to dig out is big enough to curl up in. He promptly shoves himself inside, and folds himself up into a surprisingly small ball. 

 

Masrur hadn’t quite been prepared for the assassin to curl up and pout. It’s shockingly endearing. God, the man must be so lonely, thinking everyone is confusing and stupid the way he does. He can’t think of anything that would change that, though, so he settles himself in, closes his eyes, and thinks of sea breezes.


	2. Chapter 2

 

Ja'far isn't good at sleeping in the company of others, but when he's trapped in a hole with no feasible exit in the near future, there's little else to _do_. 

 

Every noise makes him twitch, be it shifting earth beneath any and all of Masrur's movements, or the rhythm of his breathing, or-- _anything_ , to be honest. He's dealt with sleep deprivation, so this shouldn't bother him so very much. 

 

Perhaps it's the combined claustrophobic atmosphere. Perhaps he's just losing his touch. 

 

"When," he asks, no matter what it is, and certainly without unfolding himself from his personal hole, "are you going to let us out of here?" _Us_ is perhaps a better operative word than _me_. Maybe that'll spur the Fanalis along a bit.

 

Masrur wakes at the words, stretching his arms and legs out away from his body with a yawn. “I haven’t really thought about it. When do you think I should?”

 

"Now would be _fantastic_ ," is the deadpan to follow.

 

“Why?” Masrur asks, leaning over to grab his foot, stretching out his hamstring. “You don’t care about anything.”

 

Infuriating little snot. Ja'far's lips slowly curl in a snarl. "I have a _job_ to do. If Sinbad has laid a single hand upon the Oracle, I'll gut him personally."

 

Privately, Masrur would like to see him try. Not that he’d ever let it happen, of course. He takes being Sin’s bodyguard very seriously, even if Sin just calls him “friend.” “They used to have us call people by titles like that, when I was growing up,” he muses. “Helps us not get attached. Does it work?”

 

Is this idiot really trying to psychoanalyze him, or is _he_ the one over thinking it now? _I need to get out of this damned hole_ , Ja'far thinks, hating the edge of desperation that thought has. "I've been his personal bodyguard for a decade. My _attachment_ is merely professional."

 

Ja’far’s not even trying, so Masrur stops asking, settling back against the wall and closing his eyes again. He’ll wake up, probably, if Ja’far stabs him.

 

Another few hours--Ja'far knows, he starts _counting the seconds_ \--and there's that claustrophobia again.

 

He's not terribly good at being idle. He's even worse at being something of a captive. Rolling out of his hole, one of the blades strapped to his arms drops into his hand, though he knows, _knows_ he doesn't have the distance to make this terribly effective, and if he kills Masrur and is still trapped down here, that isn't helping _anything_ \-- 

 

God _dammit_. 

 

"Masrur." Allowing himself to use the idiot's name _might_ be effective. Ja'far flops back down. "The air isn't going to last in here forever."

 

Masrur wakes, and immediately stretches the other way, finishing limbering up. “I didn’t know you knew my name. Who told you?”

 

"Sinbad used it, once," Ja'far dully retorts, eyebrows lifting. "I make it a habit to pay attention."

 

“Ah. So you just chose not to use it.” Masrur tilts his head. “Because you think you’ll kill me? Will that make it easier?"

 

"What sort of _reaction_ are you hoping to get by asking me things like that repeatedly?" Ja'far sharply demands, irritation rising once more. "I know the name of every person I've killed, and I didn't _need_ to use your name to get your attention."

 

“I think your choices are interesting.” Masrur shrugs. “Most people in your situation think they’re trapped. You’re smarter. I’m interested. That’s all.”

 

"Interested in _what?_ " Stress is a good way to make him fall to his temper, and the blade still in his hand twitches. "You should be _interested_ ," Ja'far grinds out, climbing to his feet, "in getting us _out of here_."

 

Masrur looks up placidly. “You can’t force me to. I think Sin would prefer you in here instead of out there.”

 

"Yes, you've made it _very clear_ , all of that," Ja'far fairly hisses. "So tell me, _Masrur_ , what it is I have to do to _convince you_." 

 

Masrur lets his hands fall to his knees. “Give me a good reason why the world out there is better with you in it. One you believe.”

 

Ja'far's mouth opens, then shuts again, openly taken off-guard. 

 

It's a good thing that sort of thing is easy to answer. He'd thought there would be a far more awkward request, but this...

 

He draws in a slow, calming breath, and promptly turns on his heel, walking back to the hole he's made into the wall. "It's not." No matter how it makes him _cringe_ , he shoves the blade down into the dirt all the same, resuming his tunneling work. 

 

So odd, after dealing with so much Al-Sarmen, to meet one who isn’t blind to the hypocrisy and destruction of their methods, who isn’t self-deluded. “Just so you know,” he says quietly, “there’s a water main that way. If you go much farther, you’ll flood this hole and we’ll drown.”

 

Ja'far's shoulders bunch with a slow, irritated twitch, and he turns around again. "Then move. I'm digging where you are instead."

 

“There’s no reason. If you get close I’ll just seal us in again.” Masrur wiggles his toes against the dirt. “I have nothing else to do.”

 

" _I_ have plenty to do," is the low, dangerous growl to follow. "I've told you before--if your _captain_ lays a single hand upon Judal, I'll kill him. If he injures anyone within my assigned post, _I'll kill him_." Ja'far stalks forward, slamming his blade into the dirt next to Masrur's head. "Now get out of my way, and hope that the time you've made me waste here hasn't given Sinbad ample opportunity to _touch things_." 

 

Masrur looks up, impassive. “You have nothing to threaten me with.”

 

"Fine. Then I'll just dig _around you_." Ja'far firmly shoves a foot into Masrur's chest for leverage as he scoops out a generous hunk of dirt and rock.

 

Masrur thinks for a minute, then nods. “That sounds acceptable.” He closes his eyes again, and thinks of sea breezes.

 

Ja'far pauses, staring for a moment before deciding not to question it. _Maybe_ , he darkly thinks as he digs, all but climbing onto the Fanalis's shoulder, _I can_ bury him _in all of this._

 

It’s something like having a fly land on him, to have the smaller man scrambling up his front. Masrur manages to get a bit more sleep, only waking occasionally to a misplaced (possibly) foot on his face. “Move it,” he mutters, wrapping a hand around the man’s ankle and tugging it back to his shoulder. “Sleeping.”

 

This hole better work.

 

He's dulling his blades for it--annoying in and of itself--and Masrur _touching him_ makes him twitch, but he's a good enough ladder that Ja'far ignores it. It takes effort, and quite a bit o it, to have the openings of his tunnel underway, and a forceful shove of his own magoi helps clear out a good deal of the rubble before he scrambles up into it, feeling rather like a burrowing snake when he turns his head to hiss at Masrur in advance before continuing his digging. 

 

With one lazy hand, Masrur grabs Ja’far by the ankle, tugging him down into his lap before bringing his hand down against the wall.

 

When the dust settles, the hole is a new shape. Masrur goes back to sleep.

 

Ja'far starts to hyperventilate.

 

Very, _very_ little visibly fazes him anymore. This, however--this level of _frustration_ \--it's something out of his nightmares, or perhaps his childhood, or _both_. He doesn't quite think before his other blade flips into his hand, sharp and at the ready at Masrur's throat. "I am going to skin you _alive_ if you stop me again."

 

Masrur opens one eye. “That won’t get you out of this hole.”

 

He shuts his eye.

 

"If you're dead," Ja'far breathes, eyes a little too bright, "you're not stopping me from _digging_ , are you?" 

 

He shoves his foot back into Masrur's chest, using that as the boost he needs to get back to his half-caved-in hole, and promptly starts shoveling out a good portion of the dirt by hand.

 

Masrur looks up, not quite realizing the angle Ja’far is at before he does. “Where did you get those scars?”

 

Ja'far doesn't have to think before shoving a foot down into Masrur's face. 

 

Well, that’s just rude. Masrur stands, dislodging Ja’far, sending him to the ground and collapsing his half-hole with a blow from one fist. “You’re making it dusty.”

 

"Says the idiot that threw us both down here in the first place!" Ja'far snaps, scrambling to his feet in an instant. A new plan, then--he glances upward, at the heavy fall of precarious rock and soil, and promptly shoves a blade into the wall as a foothold to boost himself up. He'll claw his way out or die trying, no matter if the latter seems far more likely.

 

Masrur lets him try, closing his eyes and going back to sleep. They’re a good twenty feet down, and he can smell that some of what’s fallen over them is thick clay, some strong lines of ore. The assassin is far more likely to kill himself, buried in an uncontrolled slide. “Is it that hard, to think of one reason I should let you out, Ja’far?”

 

Higher up, and the walls are a bit slicker, made of little more than wet clay from slow trickles of water coming from who knows well, though it's probably his haste more than anything that makes Ja'far lose his footing and end up on his back, chest heaving. "I keep a teenager from ruining the world by throwing himself at arrogant _pirates_ day in and day out--oh, wait," he sarcastically bites out, shoving himself to his feet. "I can't _do that_ right now, because I'm down _here_." 

 

“I didn’t drag you down here because you were babysitting,” Masrur points out. “If it helps, Sin doesn’t want to ruin the world. He likes the world.”

 

"Why do you think I was going to _burn his ship?_ He doesn't need to be here, nor anywhere _near_ Judal!" Ja'far sucks in a ragged, frustrated breath. "You obviously have no idea what a Magi can do with the wrong king, and I won't apologize for thinking some _pirate_ that he bedded on a whim is a less than proper choice." 

 

Masrur shrugs. “Sin does what he wants. It usually turns out right.” He has nothing else to say about Sin, not to someone that’s decided to hate him so thoroughly. “It would have been easier to lie.”

 

"Don't presume to know what will turn out _right_ if you don't understand it at all," Ja'far lowly snaps back, and he starts to scramble his way back up the wall. "I gave you a reason," he grunts, searching for a better foothold. "If you don't like it, fine." 

 

“I meant at first. You said there wasn’t one.” Masrur looks up, blinking to keep the dust out of his eyes. “But this time you were very quick.”

 

"And yet you don't like it," Ja'far tosses back over his shoulder, "so I should have stuck to my original assessment."

 

Masrur wavers. “What would you do, to get out?”

 

 _Here we go_. Ja'far stabs a blade into the clay, dangling there for a moment as he looks back down. "You're right. You're poor at interrogation. I already asked you before what you _want_ of me. Name your price." 

 

Masrur blinks. His price? He’s not Sin, he doesn’t set goals like that. “I don’t have one. I just want to know what you’d be willing to do.”

 

The more Ja'far thinks about it, the more he considers killing Masrur out of some sort of _mercy_. "A great number of things, namely everything between digging a hole and killing you." 

 

Masrur folds his arms. “Would  you make a promise and prove you’ll keep it?”

 

Ja'far tries very hard not to roll his eyes. "Depends on the promise," he answers honestly all the same.

 

Masrur thinks for a moment, then a few more. “That to attack my Captain,” he says slowly, “you won’t come at him sideways. You’ll go at him straight on, or not at all.”

 

Of all the requests, _that's_ what Masrur asks for?

 

Ja'far snorts quietly, yanking his blades from the wall and landing on his feet in the same motion as he turns to look at the Fanalis. "You're certain that's what you want?" 

 

Masrur shrugs. “You’re not a djinn. I’m not making a wish. I just don’t want my friends to get hurt.”

 

Hilarious, to think that he still couldn't kill Sinbad when attacking him directly. "Fine," Ja'far simply replies. "If I'm to attack your captain, it will be straight on." 

 

Masrur sits silently, waiting.

 

"… And now you want me to prove it." He hates working with _people_. "How, exactly, would you like me to do that?" 

 

“I don’t know. It sounds difficult. You already told me your word is worth nothing.”

 

"Just my word isn't worth much," Ja'far agrees, nonplussed. "I'll make a blood promise on it, if it suits you. It matters little to me how I attack Sinbad in the end, after all."

 

Masrur tilts his head to the side, curious. “Blood promise? How do I know that means anything to you? You said yourself, nothing means anything to you.”

 

Annoyed, Ja'far scarcely resists the urge to go back to climbing. It's easier than explaining this. "It's a tradition from my home country," he flatly offers. "And assassins in general dislike spilling their own blood, so you should consider it a great honor that I'd waste a drop on you."

 

Masrur’s brows furrow. Times like this, he _does_ wish Sin were here. He’s much better at telling whether people are lying or not. “I don’t know if it means anything to you. You said you’d do anything to get out of this hole, I’m sure that includes lying.”

 

"Then _nothing_ I say is going to be good enough, is it?" is the hiss of a retort to follow, and Ja'far whirls on his heel to stab a blade back into the dirt wall again, every muscle rippling with ill-concealed irritation and tension. "Don't waste my time." 

 

Hmm, that was a flaw in his plan. Oh, well. Masrur stretches out his arms, then folds back up, closing his eyes.

 

It takes another hour of scraping away at the ceiling before it becomes incredibly, _obnoxiously_ clear that such a plan isn't going to work, either, and Ja'far almost has to _laugh_ at it all. 

 

Bested by a damned sinkhole--classic. He flops down onto the ground, eyes boring a hole through the Fanalis's head. "Why are you so loyal to him that you'd die for him like this?" 

 

“He defeated me.” Masrur can almost see now, how tall Sinbad had looked, how strong, how clever and fast and skilled, and how unprepared he’d been for meeting a man like that. “No one ever had.” 

 

It’s hard to choose his words, and he does so carefully, the sentences coming slow. “At first I wanted to follow him to see how he got so strong. I wanted to be strong like him.” But that doesn’t cover what he’d found, the acceptance and care when everyone else had seen him as a tool, the way laughter had become a part of the world around him, the way everything seems like a choice now instead of a maze he’s running through.

 

But he doesn’t have those words, so he falls silent.

 

"He's just a man," is the eventual reply, and Ja'far lets his head loll back against the wall, eyes lidded. "A lucky one, for all the magoi he has, though he hardly uses it to its full potential. He's still just a man, and one that can be killed like any other. No mere man is worth dying for." 

 

Masrur smiles for the first time since punching the ground. “You talk like someone who doesn’t know him. Besides, you’re willing to die for Al-Sarmen. If you don’t care about their cause, aren’t they just men?”

 

"I'm not willing to die for anyone." Ja'far's head tips slowly. "Anyone within Al-Sarmen that is willing to _die_ is a fool. The best of us will all tell you that. If I die, then what use am I?" 

 

“Then it’s too bad we’re going to die in this hole.”

 

"That's _your_ prerogative," Ja'far lowly says, "because you're being entirely unreasonable." 

 

Masrur looks at the assassin, then nods. “All right. Then I’ll let you tell me why I should let us out. In a way that makes sense to me.”

 

Ja'far has given up feeling any surge of hope that Masrur isn't just _fucking with him_. "By all means," he drawls. "Do tell." 

 

Masrur sits. “Whenever you’re ready. Tell me why.”

 

Is it even worth the effort? Doubtful. Ja'far bites back a sigh. "I," he _calmly_ begins, "have a job to do. Perhaps you don't _like it_ , but lately, it has consisted of playing babysitter first and foremost. And believe it or not, we have a similar goal in mind. I want no harm to befall my charge, and you want no harm to befall your captain. As it so happens, leaving them together in a room is _asking for both of them to be harmed_. The Oracle of Kou is not so easily handled by anyone but me, so I _suggest_ you let me out of here so I can bodily prevent him from eating your captain alive. Perhaps literally."

 

Masrur has to had it to Ja’far, that’s pretty convincing. He nods slowly, acknowledging the words. “Why would you want to keep Sin alive?”

 

"I don't," is the bluntly honest response. "But at current, I have no reason to risk a fight with him, and the Oracle seems intent on throwing tantrums at the idea of his death. It's more troublesome than anything to try and kill him." 

 

“He’ll give you reasons,” Masrur cautions. “He likes making people angry. I saw him, he likes your angry face. And if you try to kill him, I’ll stop you.”

 

If he had a coin for every time he had heard those words. "Unless he threatens the Oracle or I have a direct order to dispose of him, he can give me any other reason he wants. He still isn't worth my time." 

 

Masrur still hesitates. He’s hungry, he _wants_ to leave, but…. “One more question. Honest answer, and I’ll let us go.”

 

"Fine," Ja'far sighs, eyes briefly shutting. "Just get on with it." 

 

“Do you care if people are good or bad?”

 

 _Ugh_. "'Good' and 'bad' are all relative," he dully says. "For instance, the people of Kou think your precious Sinbad is a very bad man, stealing dungeons out from under the noses of their esteemed princes. Djinn aside, that treasure could easily feed the slums here for a year, and he takes it for himself. Yet you think he is still a good man, don't you?" 

 

Masrur says nothing about the villages Sin has saved with that treasure, the port cities surviving to another winter because Sin had heard they were starving and made sail immediately, a huge grin on his face and sack of gold on his shoulder, wandering in acting innocent and drunk, paying three hundred times what everything was worth. “Yes.”

 

"And yet I don't, so there's little point in asking me that question when our opinions will differ." 

 

“I didn’t ask you who was good and who was bad. I asked if you cared.”

 

The _semantics_ of it, though. Ja'far bites his tongue. "Fine. Yes." Enough to be thoroughly annoyed over Sinbad's presence within this empire outside of his own _job_ , at any rate.

 

Masrur thinks for a long, long minute. If he doesn’t think of a reason to let Ja’far out soon, they’ll both die in here, and neither of them want to abandon the ones they want to protect. And honestly, this much conversation makes his throat hurt. “Come here.”

 

Suspicion immediately flickers over Ja'far's face. "Why?" 

 

“Because the wall is going to fall on us and I’m going to stop it from crushing you.”

 

Oh. Well, that's a good enough reason. Ja'far shoves himself to his feet, stepping closer. Damn it all, but he's going to need a long, hot bath after this, assuming he still does indeed survive. 

 

Masrur pulls Ja’far onto his lap, securing the assassin in the crook of his arm. It’s a little surprising, that he’s warm to the touch. For some reason, Masrur had expected him to be more cold-blooded. “Keep your head down,” he warns. “And your eyes and mouth closed. Ready?”

 

Ja'far's teeth set themselves into a grind. _Don't stab him, don't stab him, don't fucking stab him._ "Sooner, rather than later."

 

Muscles bunch, and Masrur launches them up, fist shattering the dirt above them, foot slamming into the rock below. He hurls them into the air, sheltering Ja’far with his body as much as he can, an iron grip around his arms and midsection that he holds until they land. 

 

He keeps the grip after that too, just in case Ja’far thinks it’s cute to turn around and stab him immediately afterwards. “Are you all right?”

 

" _Fine,_ " Ja'far spits out, wiping a hand over his face to rid it of excess dust. His hair is a helpless case, and he's never wanted to cut it off more, for all the dust and clay and little bits and pieces of rubble lodged in the tail of it. First things first, though--he's _out_ , he can breathe fresh, clean air, and… damn it all, it's _late_ , and there's a very good chance something bad has happened in his absence. "Now," he wheezes, driving an elbow down into Masrur's arm, "you can let me _go_." 

 

It’s either that or hold him like this forever, and Masrur is hungry. Slowly, eyes on the hissing, spitting assassin, he lets go, backing away. The _Sindria_ is still parked in the harbor, bobbing gently, the flags for _alert, but no trouble_ flashing in the windows. He breathes again. “Goodbye, Ja’far.”

 

"You owe me a new dagger," Ja'far coldly replies as he turns away. "Remember that, if I see your face again." 

 

The lanterns about the Imperial Palace are fully lit by the time he returns, and Ja'far makes a solid attempt not to stalk his way back inside. He fails. Servants scatter, a few braver ones attempting to suggest a bath and usher him to it, but Ja'far ignores them, eyes sharp as he surveys the place. 

 

The sight that greets him is _hardly_ what he expects.

 

He was hoping for Sinbad flayed and bound, maybe creatively strung up from the ceiling. It's the exact opposite, judging by how the man seems to be _enjoying_ his wine quite thoroughly _with the princes of the Kou Empire_ , and it takes a great deal of restraint not to sent a blade right into his forehead.

 

Today is just not his day.

 

Sinbad feels the change in the room the second the door opens, but doesn’t pause in his song. The princes seem to be thoroughly enjoying the verse about the washerwoman and the talking fish, judging from how loudly they’re laughing. He finishes with a dramatic flourish to general applause, and only then casts a look at the door. “Did someone leave the door open?” he asks, grinning. “They’ll let just anyone into royal banquet halls these days.”

 

Hakuyuu wipes his eyes with the back of his hand, waving Ja’far closer. “Ah, have you met? This is Ja’far, he’s a friend. Ja’far, come, have some wine! We’ve a very entertaining dinner guest today!”

 

Kouen’s eyes widen at the sight of the assassin. “Did you spend the last day rolling around in the dirt?”

 

"That would have been much more enjoyable." 

 

Hakuren's low whistle makes him _twitch_. "You really look awful," he sighs, grabbing for a whole other jug of wine. "You should drink, definitely come drink!"

 

"Why," Ja'far lowly grinds out, ignoring the offer, "is _he_ here?" His only saving grace is that Judal is nowhere to be seen.

 

“Ja’far,” Hakuyuu admonishes cheerfully, manhandling Ja’far into a chair, “that’s no way to treat a guest! Say hello to Captain Sinbad! He came with gifts and news--and some _brilliant_ songs, you must hear them, Captain--”

 

“Sin, please!”

 

“Sin, then! You must sing the one about the, the clockmaker, with the pendulum too small--” He trails off into a fit of laughter, draining his goblet again. “Once more, please! Ja’far, say hello.”

 

"Goodbye." He's on his feet again in an instant, and Ja'far _would_ be dragging Kouen out with him, considering the man at least looks a bit more sober (though not much), for an explanation. Then again, what sort of explanation could be provided, when they all seem so _content_ to enjoy this man's company? 

 

"Ooh, you're being stubborn tonight," Hakuren fairly giggles, gulping down another mouthful of wine. "Don't mind him," he tosses to Sinbad. "He _hates_ being dirty, I think it's something of a condition, even; they have it _documented_ in certain people. It makes him very rude." 

 

“A tragic condition, to be sure,” Sinbad says, mock-seriously. Then, an idea occurs to him, and he grins, mischief glinting. “Say, didn’t I see a duck pond out back?”

 

Seconds later, royal hands grab Ja’far from every angle with a roar of laughter, hoisting him above their heads.

 

Ja'far is going to kill every last one of them.

 

The _problem_ with these idiots is that they're _royal_ idiots, particularly of a family he's been explicitly told not to cut to pieces just yet, and so being tossed into the pond is an inevitable thing. The water is _hardly_ as balmy as the weather, and he comes up gasping, shivering, _seething_ , and the _only_ good thing about this is the grime melting away from his body. 

 

"Ready for that drink now?" is Hakuren's _far_ too cheerful inquiry, and Ja'far fairly snarls, slapping away a grabbing hand as he hauls himself out, dripping wet with his clothing clinging to every inch of him. 

 

A quick shove makes it easy enough to send Ja’far back into the water, and that’s a sight Sinbad would thoroughly enjoy even if he didn’t loathe the pissy little assassin. “Everyone in!” he bellows, and in a few seconds flat the pond is full of drunken royalty, laughing and splashing, all of them going for the palest head in the pond and trying to dunk it under the water.

 

The good thing is that they're all drunk, and that he's an assassin, and even waterlogged, he's faster than the whole lot of them.

 

Ja'far claws his way out, having absolutely no regrets about kicking Hakuyuu in the face--he deserves it, the _wretch_ \--before getting a clear distance away and yanking off his shirt to wring it out. _Idiots_ , every last one of them. He stalks off, leaving them to roll around and maybe drown by the time the night's up. That, certainly, isn't his problem if they've brought it on themselves. 

 

Sinbad almost laughs himself sick at the man’s retreating back, clinging on to a stone for dear life. He’d looked so _bedraggled_ , pissy and angry and helplessly furious, and Sinbad can’t remember ever seeing anything funnier than that man’s angry face. “He doesn’t know how to have fun at all, does he?” he asks.

 

Hakuyuu snorts, rubbing his nose. “Not if it bit him in the balls.”

 

“If he has any.”

 

“Sure he does,” Sinbad puts in. “You can see them in those wet white clothes!”

 

The laughter starts again.

 

"Why are you all… in the pond?" 

 

As if his night couldn't get any worse, there's _Judal_ , suddenly there and sitting neatly on a nearby stone to peer down at the mess of royals splashing about. Ja'far bites back a groan, wiping a hand over his face before he turns back around, kicking off his shoes when the annoying squish of them makes him want to tear Sinbad limb from limb all the more. "Judal, go back inside."

 

" _Sinbad?_ What are you doing here?" 

 

Of course, the brat _would_ ignore him entirely. 

 

Sinbad’s face lights up. “Judal! I’ve been looking for you!”

 

He scrambles out of the pond, soaking wet and stark naked, beaming and waving up at the boy. “I came to Kou looking for you, of course! Then you weren’t here, so we got drunk!”

 

“Judal,” Hakuyuu calls, “I’ll buy you peaches for a month if you swat Ja’far into the pond by magic.”

 

" _Judal_ ," is Ja'far's low, warning reprimand in advance, and the Magi hesitates, pouting down at them. 

 

"He'll be mad at me, though," he complains, stretching out his legs and dangling his feet down as he hikes up the heavy brocade of his robes. "Also, he let me sleep all day for some reason, that was nice. Hey, Sinbad, you're mean, you didn't come _sooner_." 

 

“Had to come by ship,” Sinbad points out. “It’s much slower than over land, we had to go around that whole peninsula. And don’t get mad at me, you’re the one who didn’t come when we said we’d meet up.” He runs up the side of the rock, hanging onto it with his fingers. “Don’t I get a little kiss for showing up?”

 

"I _wanted_ to come!" Judal complains, his pout deepening before he eyes Sinbad, and then promptly stretches out his foot, looking quite pleased with himself. "Kiss my feet, and _maybe_ I'll forgive you."

 

Ja'far is done. Scooping up his soaked shoes as well, Ja'far stalks off, still dripping and shivering. 

 

Sinbad smiles, hoisting himself up and kissing Judal’s foot without hesitation. “Great Magi,” he breathes, “your loveliness is surpassed only by your mercy.”

 

Judal grins, and quickly reaches back, yanking loose the ties on his obi. "And now," he declares, "you're going to catch me."

 

The resounding splash that follows _that_ makes Ja'far wonder if they really have all drowned. For the best, at the end of the day. Maybe he should have let himself die in that hole.

 

~~

 

It's _early_ , but not too early, and Judal makes sure of that, with hangovers in mind.

 

Popping into Sinbad's window is easy when he can just fly up into it. He _could_ have just walked down the hall--the guest quarters they gave him isn't too far away, after all--but this is more fun, and Judal flops down into the sill, dangling his legs into the room slowly.

 

"Siiiin." He still has to be quiet. There's no telling if anyone else is up yet, and by anyone else, he means _Ja'far_. "Hey, are you awake?" 

 

Sinbad is sitting up in an instant, coming out of a lazy half-doze with the first sound, relaxing back onto the bed as soon as he sees a dark braid hanging loosely, and that lovely round face. “I’m up. Come sit on my lap, unless you want me to kiss your feet again.”

 

Eagerly, Judal does as he's told, plopping himself down onto Sinbad's lap and peering at him. "You're gonna leave today, aren't you?" 

 

Sinbad smoothes the flyaway strands of hair back from Judal’s face, cupping his cheeks affectionately. “Unless I have a reason to stay, probably. I can leave or stay as long as I want, that’s the benefit to living on a ship.”

 

Judal hesitates, butting his head into Sinbad's hands. "Then leave this morning, really early, and let me come too. Just for a little bit, at least," he quickly adds. "I just--I wanna have some fun, it's so _boring_ here sometimes." 

 

Sinbad grins. It’s hardly the first time someone pretty has sat in his lap and begged to be kidnapped, but it’s the most dangerous, and therefore the most fun. “Get whatever you want to bring, then. Do you want me to throw you over my shoulder for the look of it?”

 

 _That_ was easy. Normally people hesitate at least a little bit, considering the nature of his bodyguard, but Sinbad is different and Judal likes that _a lot_. "Yeah!" Ah, right, keeping his voice down. He wriggles his way out of Sinbad's lap again. "Definitely wanna be kidnapped. Can you imagine the look on Ja'far's face?" 

 

“Upon finding out that his charge has been abducted by a rogue? Wish I could have an artist document it for me.” Time to do the thing properly, and Sinbad stands, tugs his clothes on, and tosses Judal over his shoulder. “Now we leave by the window, like a good pirate and his captive.” He swings down out the window, leaping easily from tiny ledge to minuscule foothold, hitting the ground in a dead run and vaulting over the wrought iron gate. “Less than an hour to my ship. Hold on tight!”

 

~~

 

Normally, Ja'far tries to keep his 'nagging', or so they call it, to a minimum. 

 

This morning is an exception. He's barely slept with all the annoying thoughts running through his head, the thought of that pirate sleeping happily in the palace overnight, the thought of Judal getting into who-knows-what trouble with him at the end of the day, and the sheer fact that the near-entirety of the royal family doesn't _see_ what a nuisance he is after all, no matter the trouble he's caused in the past and undoubtedly will in the future. 

 

Mind-boggling, how they can all be so stupid. 

 

It doesn't help that he's still sore from a day spent attempting to dig and climb himself out of a hole (but at least he's _clean_ ). A stretch is enough to crack his neck into a better position, at least, before he slips off down the halls, a beeline to Kouen's room on his mind first and foremost. 

 

"If you have a hangover and are trying to sleep in later," is his low 'greeting' as he sets a knee to the man's bed, looming over him, "consider this punishment. Wake up. What were you _thinking_ , letting that trash in yesterday?" 

 

Kouen blinks sleepily up at Ja’far--never a comforting sight, first thing in the morning, and less so when he knows he’s in trouble. “I didn’t let him in,” he protests, shoving himself up on his elbows, wincing at the brightness of the morning. He scratches his beard, finger-grooming it into a neat little point--so much better, the last couple years, now that it’s coming in properly. “I was reading Ei a poem in the gardens. Yuu and Ren let him in. He told them something about being a wayward ship captain, and brought news and….I don’t know, by the time I got there everyone was already drunk, it didn’t seem like the time to start a fight. Where were you, anyway?”

 

Ja'far opens his mouth, then shuts it again, smoothing down the flare of his temper that makes him want to _rip the man's beard clean off_. "I," he flatly begins, leaning back slightly, "was dragged into a sinkhole created by his Fanalis pet _,_ after showing up to burn his ship. Is this what I can expect from now on? Being unavailable for half a day, and you and your cousins drinking with the man that steals dungeons out from under them?" 

 

Kouen shrugs. “They don’t want to be dungeon capturers that badly, or they’d have managed it. I did. They should be nicer to Judal if they want him to give them presents.”

 

He stretches, intending to stand up, but one look at the cold fury on Ja’far’s angry face makes him sink back to the bed. “No harm came of it, what’s the problem?”

 

"No harm came of it _this time_. Are you _blind_ to how Judal all but rolls over for him?" There's a twitch of tension that rolls down his spine, and Ja'far can't quite stifle the urge to rake a hand back through his hair. "You'd do well to convince the brat to go ahead and choose you, then I couldn't care less who you drink with." 

 

Now Kouen is starting to get irritated, and he shoves himself to his feet, grabbing a dressing gown from the closet. “Judal wasn’t even _there_. If my cousin wants to pour wine for a ship’s captain, I can hardly tell him not to. And wasn’t it your _job_ to make him choose me? I do everything you tell me to with him, he’s just stubborn.”

 

"He was there by the end of the night." Ja'far shifts, turning where he sits on the bed to follow Kouen sharply with his gaze. "It's my _job_ to make sure he doesn't get into any trouble. Perhaps if you were not so busy reading poems, this would be over and done with already." 

 

“And is it your job to dictate to a prince of Kou what he should do?” Kouen snaps, tying his sash with a jerk. “Don’t forget your place in this country, Assassin. If you can’t keep out of mud pits long enough to watch your charge, don’t assume I’ll do it for you. The brat’s a handful.”

 

"When Sinbad's ship pulls into Kou's harbors, he starts waltzing up to the palace, and I say _I'll be back_ before hurriedly running off somewhere, that generally isn't a cue to ignore everything and spend a day in a garden," Ja'far lowly replies. "Until that's an obvious thing, perhaps you _should_ listen to me a bit more, _Prince_." 

 

Kouen opens his mouth, then shuts it, sinking down to the bed with a groan. “Forgive me,” he mutters. “My head hurts, and I shouldn’t have snapped at you. But no harm’s been done, eh?” He downs a glass of water by the bed, rubbing at his face. “I’ll bring Judal a sweet today, I think he’s close to choosing me.”

 

It's a rare day that Ja'far surrenders to his own weariness, but Kouen being less obstinate, more agreeable, more _easy to deal with_ makes him give in slightly, and he slumps down face first. "Fine," he agrees, the reply muffled into the sheets. "The more you can keep him from Sinbad, the better."

 

Kouen chuckles, leaning over to smooth a hand up and down Ja’far’s back. “Did someone have a long day?” he murmurs, a bit teasingly, mostly affectionately. Ja’far can be difficult, but not always, and sometimes watching him run into walls is less amusing than it is worrisome. He takes on quite a lot of the running of the kingdom, sometimes without anyone noticing. So whatever he and his cousins can do for the man’s stress relief….

 

"It's not something to laugh about," Ja'far mutters, annoyed that it comes out so petulantly. He doesn't have time for this. There are a dozen things he could be doing, not limited to bodily hauling Sinbad out to the harbor and tossing him into it with weights attached to his limbs.

 

But Kouen's hand does feel sort of nice, and his bed is warm and he's sore and _tired_. "You and your cousins certainly made it that much _longer_ last night. Thank you, for that." Too much sarcasm first thing in the morning, maybe. 

 

“If you’re going to be a snot about it,” Kouen says, mock-serious now, “I could always just kick you out of my bed and send you back to your room to get ready for another long day of watching over Judal.”

 

He leans down, twirling a strand of long silver hair around one finger. “Or,” he murmurs, tugging just slightly, “I could make you feel a little better about life. Just me, or I could call the others.”

 

It's a tempting proposition. Furthermore, it's a rare day that Ja'far allows himself any sort of indulgence--rarer, lately, what with Judal's increased desire to be an obnoxious brat. Ja'far hesitates, turning his head to look at Kouen, cheek still pressed to the bed. "Considering _they_ apparently were the ones that offered Sinbad wine last night… I'm not really of the mind to bother with them right now." 

 

Kouen stretches out, letting his hand wander a bit further down, squeezing Ja’far’s supple ass--better than most women, though not Ei of course--about as hard as he knows Ja’far likes it. “Does that mean you’ll bother with me? Tell me what you want, you know I’ll provide it.”

 

"You're… slightly less guilty than they are." It's easier to not be as annoyed when Kouen's hands start wandering like that, and Ja'far lets himself shiver, twisting partially onto his side. "… So anything is fine."

 

“Anything?” Kouen shifts, laying on top of Ja’far now, leaning down to kiss his lips just once, briefly. “If I wanted to have you long and slow and sweet, would that be fine?” he asks, knowing that it wouldn’t and only regretting it for a second.

 

He's so tired right then that it almost sounds _pleasant_. "I thought that was reserved for another," Ja'far drawls as he flops back, lifting one hand to let it languidly drag down Kouen's spine.

 

A few emotions chase each other over Kouen’s face. “It is,” he says, a bit hesitantly. “But if that’s what you want….”

 

It would almost be nice, to take Ja’far like that, to feel those supple thighs wrap around his waist and move slow, rocking down into the slender body, hearing gasps and moans instead of sobs and muffled shouts, to feel Ja’far opening to him and taking him into her body, her breasts heaving, her--

 

Ja’far’s right. That’s reserved for someone else, and he has trouble even _thinking_ otherwise. 

 

A last kiss, and he turns Ja’far over, facedown onto the bed. “Hard, then? Or very hard?”

 

It was a pleasant, indulgent thought for all of a moment. Far better this way, though, when he doesn't have to think so much. Even those words make him shiver, reminding him that yes, this is a _far_ better indulgence. "Give me a reason to sleep for another hour afterwards." Ja'far can already imagine the bone-deep ache all too well, and he wriggles, enough to push himself up onto his elbows, his back arching slightly with the movement. "You," he murmurs, casting a heavily lidded glance over his shoulder, "of all people, know how to best use me."

 

All thoughts of kindness, of gentleness, fade into nothing when Ja’far looks at him like _that_. Kouen leans down, dragging a hand down Ja’far’s spine, peeling the robe from his shoulders to bare all those scars, wanting Ja’far laid out bare under him, vulnerable, defenseless (at least, as defenseless as The Assassin ever gets). “Hard enough to pry you away from your work?” he murmurs, eyes lit up with dangerous interest. “I’m sure I can manage something.”

 

His hands grab Ja’far’s thighs, spreading them roughly, one coming up to fist in his hair and grind his head down into the bed. It’s worth not being able to see those eyes to know they’re closed in shuddering surrender, in the kind of ecstasy he doesn’t think Ja’far _can_ get in any normal way. “Spread your legs like the whore you are,” he hisses, “and hand me that oil or take me dry.”

 

It's actually alarming, how well Kouen _knows him_ by now.

 

In moments like these, he's never been more grateful for the added length to his hair, a stupid, superficial thing that Judal _insists_ upon. It's good for absolutely nothing but this, the chance for it to be grabbed and yanked and used as a handle to better shove his face down into the bed, and Ja'far bites back a groan into the sheets, shuddering hard as his mind effectively clicks off--thank _god_ for that. He reaches blindly, shakily for the oil in question as his legs obediently spread, his cock already hard enough that it's more difficult to think by the moment. 

 

Ja’far doesn’t like too much talk apart from the occasional derogatory comment, or at least never seems to or begs for more, which is good, given that Kouen pretty much stops thinking whenever he’s inside the smaller man. He tips a generous portion of oil onto his hand, slicks his cock, and gives Ja’far no more warning than that before slamming inside, forcing the thick slide of his cock as deep as it’ll go, knowing the assassin will want the _stretch_ of it. “Good,” he grunts, and yanks Ja’far back by the hair, sliding out then slamming in again when he yanks that ponytail, riding him hard like a mare. “Writhe on it, whore.”

 

Better, when he can't even _scream_ for the way his breath catches in his throat, a choked, gasping sound escaping instead when he's so suddenly, achingly stuffed full. Ja'far's legs shake, back arched in a taut, trembling arc when he's pulled back by his hair, his scalp burning and eyes tearing and hands scrabbling against the sheets, the hard _pulse_ of Kouen's thick cock inside of him burning away weariness and replacing it with nothing but blind, senseless _need._

 

He'll be feeling this later, to which his only thought process is _good_ , especially when Kouen _forces_ him to take every inch of him, Ja'far's body a tight, trembling spasm around him with the urge to sag down into the bed and just be _fucked_ all the greater, but he can't, not with how he's held and pulled and jerked around. Ja'far thinks he might have sobbed, a low, mindless noise, but he ruts back all the same. It's impossible _not to_. 

 

Maybe the reason Ja’far doesn’t care whether he talks or not, Kouen thinks through a haze, is that he can’t even _hear_. He looks mindless with pleasure and pain, animalistic, a raw, needy creature who can’t think of anything but how much he _wants_ , and Kouen is nice enough to _give it to him._

 

He’s not thinking much himself, just fucking the smaller man as hard as he can, wanting to leave bruises _everywhere_ , and it’s with that slightly dangerous thought that his hand comes up, wrapping around the pale column of Ja’far’s neck and giving it a little squeeze. Not too much, can’t do too much no matter how the idea of it makes his cock ache and throb inside Ja’far, can’t let himself get carried away. He tightens his hand slightly, slamming home, startled by how close to the edge that simple act takes him already.

 

Every instinct he has tells him to _struggle_ , to fight against that hand on his throat, a threat that should raise his hackles and send him diving for his blades. 

 

But he can't, and that makes him harder. 

 

A choked groan escapes, and Ja'far's eyes roll back, one desperate hand lifting to claw at Kouen's, the hard bob and swallow of his throat beneath those much bigger fingers belying any muted attempt to struggle. "Harder," is the rasp Ja'far manages, and the plea has _nothing_ to do with how hard Kouen's already fucking him. _That's_ enough to make his legs already buckle, his cock leaking and dripping onto the sheets beneath him, and his fingers claw over the back of Kouen's hand in desperate, wordless encouragement.

 

Kouen has to be _careful_.

 

He doesn’t want to, just now. He wants to squeeze and squeeze until bruises appear everywhere on that pale throat, wants to feel Ja’far stop breathing, go twitching, then limp in his arms, sag down around his cock with a final shudder.

 

But those are the impulses he tries not to give in to, and with a snarl low in his throat, he tightens his hand, making Ja’far _thrash_ under him, ignoring the clawing of his nails and fucking him so hard and fast that even _he’s_ seeing stars from it. 

 

He almost reaches around to grab Ja’far’s cock, but it’s really better this way, making him come all over the bed by the force of their coupling alone, desperate for air, and Kouen knows Ja’far would be _whining_ if he could get enough air. 

 

It’s too much, the spasming, the tightening, the feel of Ja’far _fighting_ him but not strong enough, and Kouen lets out a low, primal growl when he comes, flooding Ja’far as deep as he can get, squeezing far, _far_ too hard for a brief moment, until he gets control back.

 

Everything _flickers._

 

Maybe he really is a whore, judging by how he could have come from a dozen different things--maybe just the way that Kouen's cock makes him feel so full when he's being fucked, the aching slap of skin against skin, the _throb_ of Kouen inside of him when he comes, filling him hot and slick and so deep that Ja'far can imagine himself _dripping_ afterwards. The hand on his neck, though, is what does him in, makes what breath he _can_ draw come so hot and fast and _desperate_ that there's not even a chance to focus and properly struggle before his sight stutters, flickering as his chest heaves and finally, his world goes dark.

 

Ja'far comes to less than a minute later, limp and sticky and _used_ , a rasping, broken groan escaping his abused throat as he _sags._ From the way his body sings, nerves still twitching out of tune, it's all too _satisfied_ , even if he can't quite remember it from how his mind still sort of buzzes dazedly.

 

It’s a relief when Ja’far stirs, and Kouen grunts, stretching out his arms before pulling out, dipping a finger into Ja’far’s hole before he pulls away. “You look filthy and used,” he breathes, grinning. “Really messy. Feel better?”

 

A sort of mostly inaudible mumble is Ja'far's initial reply. "Better," he eventually, hoarsely affirms, eyes lidded as he sags down into the bed, too boneless to even care about being a mess. "Thank you." 

 

Kouen pats damp hair, then rolls off the bed, landing on his feet with a groan. “You sleep, my bed is nicer than yours. I’ll be with the Magi, keep him away from pirates.”

 

Ja'far hesitates, pushing himself up onto his elbows for the briefest of moments. There's an odd urge to reach out and grab Kouen's arm and drag him back--but that passes, shoved down by the little, chiding voice that tells him he doesn't sleep well with another at his side, never has, and he should be grateful that someone else wants to keep an eye on his charge, even for a few hours. "… All right," he slowly agrees, sinking back down with a wincing sigh. "If anything happens, I'll be here."

 

Kouen leaves him to sleep, feeling considerably better about the day after a session like _that_ to start it off. 

 

His good mood lasts until he reaches Judal’s room and finds it empty.

 

When he goes to the pirate’s room and finds it open, curtain waving in the breeze, it turns to black anger.

 

He slams open the door to his own room, waking Ja’far. “He’s _gone_ ,” he snarls. “They _both_ are, the fucking pirate kidnapped him!”

 

Ja'far doubts there is anything that would make him jolt out of sleep and bed faster, aches and pains forgotten in lieu of snatching up his clothes. "Send off men to the harbor immediately--there's still a _chance_ they haven't left the docks yet." Even if that chance is slim, and Ja'far knows it. Gritting his teeth, he yanks his wires back onto his arms tightly. _Damn it, Judal. What are you thinking?_

 

The answer, obviously, is that the brat _isn't_. 

 

Kouen does as Ja’far orders, goes himself on his fastest horse, but he knows it’s a lost cause. Sure enough by the time he makes it to the docks, there’s an empty space where the _Sindria_ had been, and a few confused peasants telling him yes, there’d been a ship, but it had left nearly an hour earlier. 

 

He hauls his horse around, face a storm. He glares at Ja’far, brandishing an arm at the empty sea. “Chase them!” he demands, knowing how impossible that request is. They’ve tried chasing Sinbad the Sailor before, much to their own embarrassment in years past. Once he’s on the ocean, he might as well not exist.

 

If the request isn't difficult enough normally, the man has a _Magi_ on his ship now, and one that thinks it's _fun_ avoiding his keeper, besides. Ja'far grits his teeth in frustration, a pit of dread settling into the pit of his stomach. "I'll need to contact my superiors," he mutters instead, whirling his horse around. "They can track Sinbad easier than I can." 

 

That, for one thing, makes Kouen draw up short. He lays a hand on Ja’far’s arm, frowning. “They’ll punish you, won’t they?”

 

"You ask that as if I don't deserve it." Careless and furthermore, _stupid_ , to think he could-- _should_ indulge himself in any way. This is always what happens. Ja'far sucks in a slow breath, brushing Kouen's hand away. "He will be returned to you, rest assured, by my hand or another's." 

 

It’s a bleak thought, but Kouen steels himself, reminds himself what Ja’far is to him--not a friend, not a lover, just an ally, given to his family by a dangerous enemy. No, not given: loaned. “Fine. And when he gets back, he’d better be ready to choose.” _If he hasn’t already._

 

 _If he still can, he will. I'm not the only one that will be punished, undoubtedly, if he still refuses_. That's a more grim thought than anything, and Ja'far shakes his head. The brat deserves it, after all. "Stay on the alert. He might get bored and fly home, you know how mercurial he is. I'll be leaving within the hour." With that, he spurs his horse back to the palace, speed breakneck no matter how he _dreads_ the summoning soon to come.


	3. Chapter 3

He should have known better.

 

It's something of a mantra repeatedly pounding through his skull, for what little good it's worth. He should have known Judal would have done something like this, shouldn't have taken his eyes off of him for a second, should have known the mistake was an unforgivable one, should have known he'd be dead at the end of the day. 

 

Ja'far has never been fond of _should haves_. They never help very much. 

 

Still, it's all he can think about when he's curled himself into a ball below deck on the _Sindria_ , feeling colder by the minute as his life's blood seeps from him. Stupid, to think he could accomplish this mission when he's so injured, but what else was he to do? Al-Sarmen left him in this city. They expected him to either retrieve the Magi or not return at all, and failure has _never_ been an option to him.

 

A pity, then, that all of his efforts to get on this damned boat are for naught, because he's going to die anyway because of a simple slip and fall. His magoi won't slow the bleeding for much longer, after all. 

 

It isn’t intuition that leads Masrur below decks, a few hours after they set sail. Intuition isn’t really his strongest point, no matter that Sin always tells him to believe in his feelings more. That kind of thing is best left to Sin, he always knows what he’s doing. No, what leads him below decks, leaving the rest of the crew to hoist the sails and get properly into one of the great currents, is the smell of blood.

 

It’s so thick, so strong and fresh he has no idea how others don’t smell it, but he’s gotten used to the fact that as far as smell is concerned, people who aren’t Fanalis are pretty much blind. He picks his way down the ladder, eyes alert, searching out the source.

 

In the hold, tucked into a corner, bleeding freely from at least one place judging by the pulse of it, he sees The Assassin. 

 

Masrur stands still for a moment, then pulls out a length of cloth, an easy patch for riggings that makes a good bandage whenever someone falls from the nest. He kneels in front of the man, trusting to his injury that he won’t immediately cut Masrur’s throat. “Let me see it.”

 

Ja'far stares up at him for a long, silent moment, eyes not quite focused and reflecting far too-bright in the dim light. He _expects_ the man to grab him by the throat and crush it in one, easy snap. That's what he would do, if he found an enemy on _his_ ship--kill them without a second thought, particularly if they're injured. It'd just be that much easier. 

 

It's with an odd, disjointed thought that Ja'far slowly extends his leg, the limb trembling far from on its own accord as the makeshift tourniquet, a portion of his robe hem ripped off and wrenched tight, slips down his thigh, too soaked with blood to do much good when it's limp and wet. "That's not going to do much," he dully replies, his head knocking back against a wooden beam. He _knows_ he's right. The hasty stitching that he'd done himself is long gone now, old scars rent open in all the worst places. It doesn't even hurt anymore. That's not a good thing. The small bag he carries with him is just out of arm's reach--a pity, that, because there's enough poison in there to put himself out of his misery, something he knows he'd like to have by the time the Fanalis informs his captain of his presence. 

 

Masrur looks at the injury, a little surprised the man isn’t dead already. With two fingers he tears the previous tourniquet, setting the blood-soaked rag to the side as he wraps his own around ten, twenty, thirty times, as tightly as he can without injuring the smaller man, then furrows his brow. “Used to do this after the fights in Laem,” he says slowly, and lays his palm on the inside of the man’s thigh, closing his eyes.

 

Masrur doesn’t have a _lot_ of magoi. He doesn’t have a fifth of what Sin has, but he doesn’t have _none_ , either. A surge of what he does have floods out through his fingers in one of the extremely few ways he can use it, a shock of energy that constricts blood vessels, taught to him by the gladiators when there was no one else making sure the young boys didn’t die but themselves. “You’ll need to rest.”

 

All of it is still far beyond his understanding.

 

Even if he had all of his wits about him, Ja'far would still be confused. It hurts _now_ , the pulse of blood all the way down to his toes for the first time in an hour enough to make even him grimace and flinch, shaking no matter how he tries not to. "Why?" he manages, blinking hard to keep himself conscious, his world spinning. "Just kill me. Why aren't you killing me?" 

 

_To keep you alive for questioning, that's the only thing it could be, and if you spill a single word, you'd be better off dead._

 

That little nagging, reminding voice is right, of course. At the same time, he can't _do anything_ to stop it, not when he's so, _so_ tired, and Ja'far's eyes roll back a second later, leaving him to collapse onto the wooden floor. 

 

Good, he’s resting. Masrur checks for a pulse, and finds it weak, but steady. That’s good enough; he picks the man up easily, thinks for a moment, and heads deeper into the hold, into deep storage. He’s the only person that comes down here anyway, given that everything stored here is ridiculously heavy for anyone but him. Another trip, and he thinks a silent apology to Sin for using one of his mattress pallets and blankets without telling him, taking them both down to deep storage and setting the man up a little improvised cot. It’s not as good for ship sleeping as a hammock, but it’s better than sleeping on the floor, and there is no extra hammock. 

 

It’s easy to get an extra ration of food at every meal. All Masrur ever has to do is look the cook in the eyes and say, “I’m hungry.”

 

The one thing he’d been worried about is lying to Sin, but that’s no problem. He’s busy teaching the little Magi all about nautical life, or more accurately, taking him up to the crow’s nest to see around them then immediately back to the captain’s chambers to make the boy squeal some more. That’s fine, it suits Masrur’s purposes, and for days, he helps the mostly-unconscious assassin choke down broth, spending all his non-watch time changing bandages and bathing the wound so it doesn’t get infected.

 

It takes something like a week before Ja'far _actually_ wakes. 

 

Even then, his world is something of a spinning, aching _blob_ around him, with the ache in his leg and the rocking of the ship doing him no favors. He hates ships. He hates the _ocean_. 

 

Basically, he hates everything.

 

Opening his eyes makes him cringe, an arm thrown over his face with a low, unhappy groan does him little better, and his stomach _churns_. He can sense Masrur nearby even if the man says nothing, and he's honestly a little surprised he isn't tied down. Then again, Ja'far doubts he'd be capable of killing _anything_ right now, let alone a Fanalis twice his size.

 

"… Did you find my bag?" He wants it more than ever now. There are a few poisons in there capable of killing him in at least a few minutes, no matter his immunity, and he _wants them_. To hell with Judal, to hell with Al-Sarmen.

 

“I did. Dangerous stuff in there.” Masrur had had to sit down after one sniff. He hands over a bowl of broth, setting it on the deck. “You probably want to feed yourself now. I have more solid food if you want to eat that. Let me see your leg.”

 

"Tip a vial or two of that stuff in here, then I'll eat," Ja'far mutters, his hand shaking so badly when he tries to reach out and grab the bowl that he gives up a moment later. The last time he's felt so weak, he wasn't even 10 yet, and he doesn't _know_ how he survived that. Al-Sarmen hadn't expected him to, undoubtedly. He sags back, eyes shutting tightly. "I don't have anything to say to your captain, if that's why you've kept me alive." 

 

“He doesn’t know you’re here.” Masrur picks up the bowl and spoon without hesitation, dipping the spoon in, then holding it up to Ja’far’s lips. “Open.”

 

Ja'far stares at him, and lifts his hand to catch Masrur's wrist, (attempting) to push his hand away. "What?" From the previous conversation he's had with this man, he's fairly certain that he doesn't _lie_ \--at least, not about things like that. "Then… why?" 

 

“Because…” Masrur frowns. He’s not entirely sure why, himself, only known that it had felt right. “Because you’re just doing your job. Let me feed you or look at your leg.”

 

Ja'far's brow knits, confusion far more visible on his face than he'd _ever_ like it to be, but he lowers his hand all the same. "I'm not hungry," he mutters, and the _flop_ of his stomach reminds him of why. "I get seasick… very easily."

 

Ah, that makes sense. Masrur sets the broth down, and gently widens the assassin’s legs to look at the bandages instead. “You didn’t bleed through them today. That’s good.” It only occurs to him afterwards that looking at the inside of someone’s thighs is very different when they’re _awake_.

 

The flush on his face is probably the worst thing that's happened to him so far. "Reassuring," Ja'far manages, turning his head aside. _This_ , somehow, makes him feel even more vulnerable than anything Al-Sarmen has ever done to him. Bound by their magic, every scar they've ever put on his body rent open with a flick of a magician's wrist--even their voices inside of his head, reminding him of every failure, how this is his greatest failure _yet_ , that he doesn't deserve to live if he can't _fix it_ \--

 

Somehow, being within an enemy's ship, treated and cared for by them, is a dozen times worse. 

 

He shivers hard. "If you didn't tell your captain about me… then what do you intend to do with me?"

 

Masrur tugs at the edge of Ja’far’s bandages, making sure they lie neatly in place--they do, which is good, given that someone will be sure to notice if cloth strips keep going missing at the same rate. He pulls out a bit of soft biscuit, the only one he has left, and pops it into Ja’far’s mouth, hoping a bit of solid food will give him a bit of strength back. “I’ve killed many people,” he says at last, sitting back on his heels. “But none who weren’t trying to kill me. As long as you’re not hurting anyone, I just want you to get better.”

 

Ja'far's stomach rolls again threateningly, but he manages to chew and swallow all the same. That sort of logic is beyond him entirely. In any other circumstance, he's certain that he'd want to kill Masrur, just by the fact that he's a threat by simply being _alive_. _He_ should be the same to Masrur, and yet--

 

 _Retrieve the Oracle, kill the pirate, sink his ship and make sure all those within it drown_.

 

It should be an easy task list, but right now, it just makes him feel sick and cold. 

 

"I…" He swallows around a dry throat, his world spinning as he lurches with the next sway of the ship, and fortunately, Masrur is a warm, solid wall to flop against. Ja'far can't really bring himself to move right then, no matter how pathetic that makes him. "Then I am in your debt."  

 

Masrur is startled for just a second before letting an arm fall over the smaller man, holding him steady. “I don’t care about things like that,” he rumbles quietly. 

 

It twists in his stomach to know that this man is Sin’s enemy, would kill Sin if he could, that Sin would kill this man. It feels dully like being _disloyal_ , something he’d never even considered he could be, something he doesn’t like feeling.

 

And yet…

 

“Just get better.”

 

Ja'far's chin hooks over one strong, broad shoulder, and his dazed mind idly compares it to Kouen. Much bigger still, and he'd always thought Kouen had a decent size and breadth to him. Masrur is warmer, too, which is less surprising--En always has had poor circulation. "If I do," he slowly murmurs, eyes shutting, "then I have to take Judal back. Maybe kill your captain, if he tries to keep him."

 

No matter how deadly Ja’far is, there are few men in any country who can stand up to him, or to Sin. They’ve never met one yet that can stand up to both of them. Masrur picks his words carefully. “We’ll see...what choices you make once you’re well.”

 

 _I have orders. It isn't a matter of choice._ Not with that nagging voice in his head, not with how he hurts _everywhere_ , not with how cold he is or the terrifying thought that he'd be tossed out again. _Failure_ is a dozen times worse than death. 

 

And yet he can't bring himself to say any of that.

 

Ja'far shudders instead, what strength he does have used to haul himself more comfortably against Masrur, warmth and that _need_ to feel someone else's solidly beating heart winning out over any good sense. He _hurts,_ the strain of arranging himself in Masrur's lap enough to make his stomach start flip-flopping again, but it's better than it was before once he settles.

 

At least, for now.

 

~

 

Nearly a week after Ja’far wakes up, Masrur overhears the Magi telling Sinbad that it’s no big deal to control the weather. That feels something like foreboding, but it’s not until later when he says, “Here, I’ll prove it!” that things really go to hell.

 

Less than an hour later he’s climbing the riggings, grabbing onto the end of a lashing sail as it beats men about the head and neck, tying it into place as Sinbad shouts orders and Judal pouts, saying that he can’t necessarily control the winds once they’ve _started_ a storm. 

 

The rain thunders down, lightning striking the water all around them as the ship hurtles through the water in a howling gale, pitching this way and that, and three times, Masrur sees Sinbad dive headfirst into the water to rescue someone who’s gone overboard. Each time, Masrur takes the wheel, using his strength to keep them from crashing into Sin’s tiny bobbing form, praying the rudder won’t just _break_.

 

By the time they sail out of the storm and Judal sort of shoves it away, most of the men are dropping onto the deck, Sinbad vomiting sea water and laying there shuddering, all three men he’d saved trying to help him to his chambers. Even Masrur sags against the wheel, bruised and bloody where the ropes had caught him, hands aching and frozen to the wheel before he pries them off.

 

Before he can collapse himself, he climbs wearily down to the hold, unlocking the door to deep storage and blinking into the darkness. “Ja’far? Are you all right?”

 

Ja'far _hates_ Masrur in that moment for having hidden his poisons away, because he's never wanted to die more.

 

All right. Perhaps that's melodramatic. Another week spent fighting off infection and generally being seasick around the clock makes him disinclined to care, however, especially after _tonight._ He's still bent over a bucket, chest heaving weakly as he tries in vain to keep from dry heaving once again. It isn't as if he's able to eat much anyway, so what he's been vomiting up is anyone's guess at this point. 

 

"Kill me," is the only hoarse groan he can manage.

 

“Your Magi almost killed all of us,” Masrur mutters, grabbing a bucket of seawater and starting to scrub up everything that’s spilled. Ja’far isn’t terribly messy, but in a careening ship, anything vaguely liquid can’t be confined to a bucket. “You might be in luck. Maybe Sin will get tired of him and you can just take him back.”

 

"No one believes me when I say they don't want him," Ja'far bemoans, and he flops back onto his cot, shuddering hard with every breath as he tries not to start throwing up yet again. "Little wretch. I'm going to kill him myself." 

 

“I can think of a few sailors who’d help.”

 

Masrur sort of reaches the end of his endurance, and sags down onto the cot with Ja’far. “Sorry. Just give me a second, I’ll get up.”

 

Ja'far's head shakes and he rolls to the side, curled against Masrur before he can stop himself. It's instinct, being drawn to that much _heat_ , especially when he feels this sick and the chill that settles into his bones doesn't help. "I don't care." 

 

The bone-deep weariness kicks in, and Masrur passes out before he can even make the conscious decision to let his head rest against Ja’far’s pillow. He can’t even bring himself to care that he’s falling asleep next to an assassin. If he could even think, he still probably wouldn’t have cared.

 

The oddest part is that Ja'far sleeps, too.

 

He blames it on the fact he hasn't been properly warm in what feels like years (it's closer to a pair of weeks, but who is counting at this point?). Masrur is definitely warm, more akin to a furnace than anything, and a solid, unmoving weight even when the ship sways, which is another thing that's kept him awake nonstop since he regained consciousness. 

 

The worst part is when he wakes at a time he assumes is morning, he can't quite find the thought of _I could kill you in your sleep, and you'd never have a chance_ \--a thought he certainly should have, if he listens to that nagging voice of _finish your damned assignment already_. 

 

Instead, Ja'far merely flops onto his back--regrets it, when he's cold again--and shivering, flops right back over, face pressed into Masrur's shoulder.

 

Masrur doesn’t often wake up next to someone else. The closest thing he can think of to it is when they all pile together for warmth, like Sin and Hinahoho and Drakon and he used to do together in the desert, when he was young. That had been warm, and felt like home, and felt like safety, and security, more than he’d ever had of either in his brief, eventful life.

 

This, though….this is nice for other reasons. Slowly, Masrur curls an arm around the smaller man, not really sure why, just wanting to keep him closer.

 

Logically, this is a mistake.

 

Not so logically, this makes him feel better than he has in recent memory. 

 

Another, slower shiver, and Ja'far nestles his way into the crook of Masrur's arm, one of his own slowly unfolding from where its folded to lay against the larger man's chest. "You really are like a damned bonfire," he mumbles tiredly. 

 

Masrur starts to apologize, then stops. If Ja’far didn’t like it, he probably wouldn’t be cuddled so close, pressed up against him, would he? So instead, he just says, “If you get too hot, tell me.” 

 

And it probably shouldn’t feel like permission to put a hand on Ja’far’s back and pull him closer, feeling his beating heart, tucking the man against his chest.

 

"… That's probably impossible." It's cold below deck, though at least it isn't damp like Ja'far would expect a ship to be. The splay of Masrur's hand against his back makes him shiver again, though it takes a moment to realize it's a _different_ sort of shiver, and his fuzzy, sleep-addled mind can't quite catch up. 

 

"Your captain," Ja'far slowly attempts, "is probably wondering where you are." 

 

“My Captain,” Masrur says calmly, “will be laid up all day, after swallowing that much seawater. We’ve dropped anchor, no one will need me until tomorrow.” _Why am I justifying my absence?_ Possibly because he doesn’t want Ja’far to think he likes to shirk his work, but more because he wants to stay here, wants to stay like this.

 

He _likes_ the way Ja’far feels against him.

 

Ah. Maybe likes it too much.

 

Ja'far relaxes a bit at that. He'll have to emerge eventually to complete his task, but dealing with Sinbad today, right _now_ , seems like the most unappealing thing in the world. No, far more appealing is staying right where he is… or better yet, marginally closer. Masrur is warm enough that it's a little addicting, and unthinkingly, Ja'far rolls, flopping himself atop the man's chest (and what does it say about him, that he sort of likes the strain it puts on so recently healed wounds, just to splay his legs and straddle Masrur's hips?). 

 

He should be trying to convince himself that this is for the sake of making his task _easier_. But turning Masrur into a traitor--something tells him that's nigh impossible to accomplish, and so the slide of his body against Masrur's is pleasure only, not _business_ , with a dozen warning bells going off that the last time he indulged in something like that, it ended very, _very_ badly. 

 

He's still too tired, too frayed at the edges to care. 

 

"… Then…" Ja'far's head butts beneath Masrur's chin. _Stay?_

 

Masrur swallows hard. Not because of the danger in bedding an enemy agent, not because he shouldn’t be doing this, not because Ja’far is a man, something he’s almost never interested in….

 

Just because being this close to Ja’far makes his mouth dry, and his skin warm all over.

 

The hand on Ja’far’s back stays there, moving gently up and down, feeling the lean, tight play of muscle there. The other hand comes up to cup Ja’far’s face as Masrur leans up, closing his eyes and meeting Ja’far’s lips with his. 

 

 _Gentle_ , he reminds himself a thousand times. _Gentle, gentle, do everything you can to keep your hands gentle. Like an egg._

 

He’d been nearly nine years old before he’d learned to hold an egg between his fingers without cracking the shell. One of the other gladiators had tossed him eggs in the evenings, claiming he knew some Fanalis did similar things with their young, to teach them how to control their strength. 

 

At least a kiss shouldn’t shatter Ja’far.

 

It's _odd_ , being kissed for longer than a fleeting second.

 

Kouen has a desire or two for it, on occasion, but it's almost always a brief, affectionate thing, less this slow, careful press that sends a twitching little shiver down his spine. It's also a dozen times more different than dealing with women. They like being kissed, annoyingly enough, and sort of expect it, but fortunately, it's been awhile since he's had to deal with seducing a woman to kill the man whose hip she's attached to. 

 

It's definitely bad that he likes it at all, let alone in this circumstance.

 

Ja'far lurches up a bit more, his own hand sliding up Masrur's chest as his lips part, a low, rumbling sound thankfully muffled into the back of his throat when his teeth lightly catch against Masrur's lower lip, tugging. If he hadn't been warm before, he certainly is _now_.

 

Ja’far’s lips are at least warm, even if the rest of his body only seems that way once it’s been pressed against Masrur for a good few minutes. That’s all right--he has more than enough heat to go around, and it isn’t as if he _minds_ the way Ja’far is perched on top of him, languidly lying there, submitting to the way Masrur likes to touch him, slowly, up and down his back. 

 

He kisses the Assassin gently, thoroughly, taking pleasure in just that much, not really caring if they ever get beyond such a thing. It’s enough, just to feel those lips trembling slightly and pliant against his, teeth tugging at his piercing, making his eyes lid shut. He tastes, and even if Ja’far doesn’t smell like anything, he certainly has a taste, and it’s intoxicating, subtle, appealing. 

 

Ja’far probably thinks him slow in all ways, but Masrur feels no need to rush this, gently nibbling at Ja’far’s lips, tongue flicking against his, letting out a brief, contented sigh through his nose.

 

 _Damn it_ , but he shouldn't be enjoying this so much.

 

It's sort of _fun_ , being able to suck Masrur's lower lip into his mouth, tasting the Fanalis as well as the odd tang of metal from his piercing when his tongue runs against it. Ja'far's eyes lid, a soft huff of his own breath escaping, and he shifts restlessly, the hand on his back almost disconcerting in the fact it isn't digging in or grabbing or _pulling_ him somewhere. 

 

"… I'm not going to break," is the first thing he manages to say in awhile. Ja'far would have thought that a Fanalis, of all things, would enjoy using that strength to their advantage in moments like these. 

 

“No, you aren’t.” Masrur’s hand is careful on Ja’far’s back, even his lips are careful against Ja’far’s. “Because I won’t break you. I promise.” 

 

Two of the women he’s bedded had been openly nervous, either of his size or his strength, no matter that he’d been _careful_ , that he’d never so much as raised his voice to them. The third had been too-cheerful, too-smiling, _too_ unafraid except when she thought he was looking away, and Masrur hadn’t been at all surprised to find out later that Sin had paid her to take proper care of him for the night.

 

Ja'far offers him an odd, sort of vaguely annoyed look. "For someone so content to throw his strength around the rest of the time…" he trails off, muttering, and slowly eases himself up with a stretch, sliding back to perch himself atop Masrur's hips as he reaches up to pull the tie free from his hair. 

 

The way Masrur's cock feels pressed against the curve of his ass is another thing that shouldn't make heat pool so quickly in his belly, or make his fingers fumble a little with a simple ribbon. Ja'far swallows--not _eager_ , he tells himself, no matter how the quickening of his breath would convince anyone otherwise.

 

Masrur’s breath comes short and fast, and his body suddenly feels as slow as people usually think he is, flicking his tongue out to lick his lips, still a little kiss-swollen. “You’re--”

 

 _You’re sitting on my cock_ is a bit too obvious to say, and it’ll be more obvious still in a second with how he swells under the touch. His hand comes up to touch Ja’far’s hair, threading through the long silver strands, marveling at how thin and soft it is, like spun silk. 

 

The thought comes that _it would look so much nicer on my pillow_ , or pooling on his chest while Ja’far rides him, and that makes him groan under his breath. “You--have nothing to fear from me, like this,” he manages, even as he hardens swiftly against Ja’far’s ass. 

 

All he can hope for is that Ja’far politely declines, rather than raising an eyebrow and ordering him away, or worse, being frightened.

 

Ja'far breathes out a laugh before he can stop himself, no matter how his pulse jumps and his breath hitches when he wriggles back, just a bit, just _enough_ to feel how much harder Masrur is by the second. Swallowing around the dryness of his throat is a difficult thing. Of _course_ he'd be that large. Proportions, Ja'far dazedly reminds himself, and his fingers flex against Masrur's chest with the next shudder that winds its way through him. "What," he mumbles, "exactly, am I suppose to fear?"

 

He's lost his mind. Fitting, with his slew of failures as of late, and so Ja'far doesn't bother thinking when he slides a hand back, dragging the heel of his palm along the length of Masrur's cock through fabric. His own cock twitches and jumps, the realization that his fingers probably don't even reach _around it_ if it were grasping it making something hot and needy twist within him. "Do you…" He licks his lips, a slow flush creeping over his cheeks. "Do you want to put it in?" 

 

“It’s fine,” Masrur mutters, cheeks flushing both from the question and from the feeling of Ja’far’s hand, dragging up his cock, pressure making the blood swell and making him _shudder_. His hips twitch up, and he hisses out a breath through his teeth, barely biting back a groan. “I know--it’s too big, I don’t mind.”

 

"So? Maybe that's a good thing," Ja'far murmurs, his hand sliding away to let his ass slide back again. His fingers fumble instead with the ties of his robes, letting them pool at his hips and thighs by the time he's done, his own cock hard and flushed between his legs as his thighs quiver, splaying wider over Masrur's hips as he arches back. It's not quite as good as skin against skin, and the fastenings of Masrur's own clothing are within such easy reach that there's really no helping the wandering of his hands. 

 

It feels even bigger, somehow, freed from the confines of clothing, sliding up against his ass as Ja'far squirms back, and his mouth falls open, that needy, twisting heat in his belly back a dozen times over. "So long… as you have something to ease it, anyway," he manages, eyes fluttering, though he _does_ wonder, even then, if it'll go. 

 

Masrur is starting to really wonder who’s the captive and who’s the captor. He wonders all the more with how _helpless_ he feels, guided by Ja’far’s sure hands, and even if he knows from experience that it’s just not quite _possible_ , Ja’far seems so certain that it’s difficult to argue with him.

 

Plus, the idea of being buried inside Ja’far makes his blood pump hot and fast, makes his hands clench at the idea, and he’s as gentle as he can be when he rests his hands on Ja’far’s waist, running slowly up and down his sides. Like an egg. _If you can hold an egg, you can hold a woman,_ his trainer had told him. The same applies to a man, he’s sure. “There--” He swallows, voice hoarse. “I brought dipping oil for your bread, the bread’s gone hard.” 

 

He fumbles with the bag he’d brought, forgotten in his weariness, and hands over the little bottle. “You don’t _have_ to, this is enough…”

 

"If you tell me _one more time_ what I don't have to do--" He'll what? Stop? Unlikely, with how hard Masrur is against him, cock straining against the curve of his ass, and Ja'far wriggles within the other man's hold, the fact that he isn't being pulled around, grabbed until he's bruised, _any_ of those things a mix odd and sort of _nice_. 

 

He's right about one thing--his fingers don't even quite touch when they reach back, messily dripping with the oil to drag it up the length of that thick, heavy cock. It's _still_ probably not enough oil, but even just pressing back enough to feel the head of Masrur's cock drag and catch against his hole makes his own blood quicken, the promise of that impossibly thick, aching stretch making him want all the more. 

 

"Don't," Ja'far quietly pants out as he rocks up onto his knees, wobbling a little from the effort, "thrust up or anything yet, if you can help it. Just--let me--" 

 

He's right about another thing, actually. It takes _work_ , no matter how he tells himself to relax, how he's probably more relaxed during sex than he's ever been (odd, considering the setting). Just the head of it is so thick that it takes another smear of the oil, trembling fingers wrapped about Masrur's cock as Ja'far sinks down, writhing, panting from the effort when his body finally gives way with a trembling little shudder, the slick, dripping head of that big cock sinking inside and stretching him wider than he can _ever_ remember being. His legs threaten to buckle, and Ja'far sags, hands immediately scrabbling into Masrur's chest for support, but gravity and his weak, aching legs have other plans, bringing him to sink down inch by inch, a hoarse, broken groan pulled from his throat as he's stuffed _full_ , every muscle a mindlessly spasming thing even before he's entirely down.

 

If this is what sex usually feels like, Masrur can suddenly see why people crave it like they do, to the point they ignore obligations and families and basic human needs to get it. This is no sweaty fumbling shameful mess, this is tight heat and gasping and trembling and needing, this is pleasure so bright-hot it feels almost like pain, like thawing his hands after he’s been touching ice. This is beyond anything he’d thought sex was, and from now on, Masrur feels like he’ll understand Sin a bit better the next time his Captain puts them all in danger for a night with a pretty bedpartner.

 

He can’t help but notice how Ja’far is struggling, and his hands come up, lifting him easily, making sure he’s stable. His throat is dry, pulse pounding so loud he can hardly hear himself think, but at least his hands are steady. “H-however,” he tries, and has to stop to clear his throat, sweat beading on his brow as he shudders. “However you want--just--tell me how, I’ll move us--” 

 

He should say something else about how good it feels, but he has no words, no concept of how to talk like that, no idea of how to do anything right now but enjoy.

 

Ja'far inhales, exhales a hot, ragged breath, the first one he feels like he's been able to force through his lungs in awhile. His hands twitch against Masrur's chest, and it takes some effort, lifting them as shaky as they are, to rest over the larger man's. "H…help me… get it all in, first," he manages to rasp out, sweat beading on his brow as it furrows, his teeth biting into his lower lip when his thighs bunch and twitch and god, he's not quite certain he can take it all the way, but he _wants to_. His hair sways over his shoulders as his head bows with a shudder. "Want to feel you… all the way inside me. Then just… however you want, I don't _care_ …" 

 

It’s not as easy as Masrur had thought, lifting someone who’s squeezing around his cock, legs splayed wide and rocking down. It’s not easy, because all he can think is--actually, he can’t think at all, can’t do anything but groan, trying to keep enough presence of mind to be _gentle, gentle._

 

Slowly, using every bit of concentration he has, he lowers the smaller man down, letting gravity do all the work, keeping him from sliding down far too quickly, knowing that could _hurt_ him, knowing this probably does anyway. 

 

After what seems like an hour to Masrur, his hands touch his hips, and he slides them out, letting Ja’far sit astride him, feeling the press of that soft curve of the man’s ass against his hips, feeling Ja’far tremble and twitch. He shakes his head mindlessly, nuzzling into the fall of Ja’far’s hair, taking comfort from that softness when everything else is blinding white intensity, something he’d never thought he could find with someone so fragile and breakable. 

 

He looks up, red eyes meeting black. “All right?” Ah, his voice is shaking.

 

Ja'far isn't sure how to answer that question.

 

He's _never_ felt so full, not when he has Yuu and Ren both shoving him between them, En rutting against his face at the same time. This is _different_ , with every inch of Masrur's cock fitting inside of him, no odd angles that he has to twist himself into to make it happen--just the aching, twitching stretch of his own body, with Masrur slick and hot inside of him and his own cock so hard that he drips onto the man's stomach with every heave of his breath. 

 

"Good," he rasps, swallowing hard, and he grabs blindly for one of Masrur's hands, pulling it around to his back. "F-feel it?" Ja'far manages, his eyes squeezing shut as his breath escapes as little more than a ragged, stilted pant. "You're so deep inside me, I… you don't… have to be gentle, you can just fuck me, I _like it_ \--"

 

Masrur nods hesitantly, closing his hands around Ja’far’s waist, squeezing just _barely_ , and his breath comes fast, everything surging in his blood in a way he usually doesn’t feel except in combat. “I feel it,” he breathes, an odd sort of wonder on his face, that serious expression shattered by pleasure twinging through his body, making his breath come short, his muscles tense. 

 

He swallows hard, sitting upright, holding Ja’far’s body to him, ignoring the other man’s pleas. He does have to be gentle; he could fuck Ja’far as hard as he’d ever been fucked in his life and not use a tenth of his strength, and that isn’t the way he wants to do this, anyway. He’s careful, so careful as he lifts Ja’far with the barest hint of pressure, head bowing to meet his lips, kissing him softly as he thrusts slowly, gently in and out, in and out, sparks going off behind his eyes.

 

Maybe it's better if Masrur is careful with him after all.

 

 _No one_ has ever been careful. Not only that, but it's already far, _far_ too much, and just the first thrust up inside of him makes Ja'far's breath catch and stagger, his body trembling as it sags forward, his hands mindlessly coming up to splay over Masrur's shoulders, then up through his hair, voice breaking into little whimpers. Just the slightest wriggle or downward twitch of his hips makes his eyes roll back, mouth falling open as he tries to remember how to _breathe_ when he's so utterly stuffed full, every muscle clenching tighter still. 

 

The first thrust steals Masrur’s breath.

 

The second makes his vision white out.

 

The third reduces him to a panting, desperate creature, even if he retains the presence of mind to be _careful_ , rocking his hips gently, hoping that somehow, in some way, Ja’far can enjoy this too. Some people like having a cock in them, Masrur knows, and god, he _hopes_ Ja’far is one of them, or this must really be torture.

 

He pauses, stilling their motion for a minute, letting Ja’far sink all the way down on him and capturing his lips, kissing him long and slow and easy, letting them both catch their breaths.

 

The question remains on how he's supposed to catch his breath when he's so hard, so _full_ , and Ja'far whines, low and breathless, his hips rutting down in mindless, desperate little motions. If he arches his back enough, his cock grinds against Masrur's stomach, and arching his back like that just makes it feel like Masrur's stuffed inside of him even _deeper_ , a thought that makes him groan helplessly with need. 

 

" _Please_ \--" He doesn't beg. Never begs, rarely utters a word during sex except to tell someone exactly how he likes it, but this-- "P-please, don't stop, just--" 

 

Masrur nods slowly. “All right, all right. Just--don’t hurt yourself.”

 

The honest concern on his face fades into arousal when he starts to move again, arms around Ja’far’s back, holding the man close, stopping to kiss him deeply every few seconds.

 

Then it starts to feel _too good_ , and all he manages is a rushed, inaccurate brush of his lips as he thrusts in carefully, slow easy rolls of his hips still enough when he’s buried in something so _tight_ , something so _hot_ , something that feels as mind-tinglingly _perfect_ as Ja’far does.

 

Ja'far isn't thinking, _can't_ think when he mouths a wet, open-mouthed kiss to Masrur's neck, a scrape and nip of teeth following a moment later as his fingers curl against broad shoulders, scratching and digging into flesh. He _aches_ , the shivers wracking his body trailing all the way down to his toes, and with every slick, hot slide of Masrur inside of him, his body feels closer and closer to buckling.

 

He can't think, and so he doesn't _try to_ when he finally, gratefully comes, and all it takes is a helpless little jerk of his hips, the slide of his cock against that hard stomach making him whine and thrash before he spills, messy and dripping between them, clinging tight with every helpless shiver that winds its way through.

 

Masrur’s strength doesn’t mean he doesn’t _feel_ things just as acutely. So when Ja’far clenches down around him, thighs clamping shut, every part of him aching and twitching, the squeeze to Masrur’s cock is unbearable. 

 

Being gentle now is harder than ever, and Masrur thanks whatever gods are listening that he’s _close_ , thrusting in slow, shallow, easy thrusts that he hopes aren’t too much--

 

And it catches him off guard, the way his orgasm rips through him, stealing his breath and making him grunt out a startled exclamation, letting Ja’far drop a lot faster down than he should, spilling harder than he ever has in his life, buried deep inside the other man.

 

It's just obscene now, how slick he feels inside.

 

Ja'far gulps in a fast, hasty breath, swallowing hard when his body twitches and _twinges_ , a little cramping complaint at being so full even after he's spilled, but he likes it, no matter how it makes him shudder. It isn't as if he's _moving_ any time soon, anyway, and so he surrenders to the feeling, sagging forward against Masrur's chest with a strangled groan. 

 

One of Masrur’s hands comes up, brushing the hair out of Ja’far’s face, damp with sweat, and cups his cheek as he leans down to kiss him again, his other hand secure on Ja’far’s lower back. They’re both much, much warmer now, enough that he forgets he’d ever thought Ja’far was cold to the touch, breath mingling between them.

 

Ja'far huffs out a hot, lingering breath against Masrur's mouth, eyes lidded, dark and _sated_. A bad idea, all of this, every single second of it, but every inch of him tingles pleasantly, the soreness of his body a promise that he'll sleep well again very soon, and the thoughts of his mission have never been further from his mind. 

 

That's bad, very bad, but right now, he doesn't _care_.

 

~

 

Masrur is a good first mate.

 

He’s a very good friend, and something like a nephew, or maybe even a surrogate son to Sinbad, and has been since he’d picked the kid up in Laem all those years ago. He knows Masrur the way few people ever take the time to--knows what passes for a smile on his serious expression, knows how to tell when the man everyone else thinks is a block of stone is sad, or worried, knows what makes him angry and what makes him deadly intent, knows his strengths and weaknesses.

 

And one of those weaknesses is that Masrur isn’t a very good liar.

 

Nor is he terribly good about concealing his secrets. It’s easy for Sinbad, upon waking from his overboard adventure, to hear from a few crew members that Masrur is probably in the hold, where he’s been spending all his free time for several days. Annoying, that Sinbad hadn’t noticed before now, but he’s been a little busy with Judal. A word in the galley proves that Masrur’s been taking extra food, especially broth, and Sinbad relaxes with a grin. He’ll still have to have a word with Masrur and put into port soon; no matter what kind of a soft spot the big man has, pets just aren’t allowed on the Sindria, not with how dangerous they can be to food stores.

 

Sinbad picks his way down ladders below deck, letting his eyes get used to the darkness before striding through the door. “Masrur, I don’t care how cute or how sad it looked, you can’t just pick up an animal that looks at you with big sad--”

 

He stops.

 

It’s not a cat, perched on Masrur’s lap, stuffed full of his cock and rocking down in shuddering little gulps of breath.

 

It’s The Assassin. 

 

Sinbad moves, but Masrur moves faster, crouching down around the pale man, taking Sinbad’s first blow easily on his back. “Captain, please wait.”

 

The hiss that comes from Ja'far's throat is low, feral and dangerous, and there's already a dagger in his hand before the first blow lands on Masrur's back. He's glad now that he insisted upon having his weapons returned, even if it took some nagging, but more so threats about getting up and finding them himself. Ja'far hasn't as much as touched them until now--save to examine them, and make sure they weren't in any way damaged in the time they were away from his person--but now, it feels _good_ to have something sharp in his hold as his eyes slit, trained warily upon Sinbad when they were glazed in pleasure only moments before.

 

Weapons are good. The _problem_ lies in the fact that he's still not entirely and completely well, and Ja'far is no idiot, knowing that he needs to be at his best and beyond to be able to effectively fight this man. 

 

Masrur tightens an arm around Ja’far, holding him still, and only wishes he could do the same with Sinbad. “Captain,” he says again, but Sin is already still, hands tensed and at the ready, holding back after Masrur’s first word. 

 

“I thought,” the Captain says, trying to keep his voice light, “you’d hidden some cat away down here to nurse it back to health. Not an Al-Sarmen whore.”

 

Ja'far sneers. "'Whore'-- _please_. You'd like that, wouldn't you?" He twists within Masrur's hold, though gets absolutely nowhere, and his fingers twitch with the urge to throw his dagger into Sinbad's eye. "Believe it or not, I'm not here to kill you, if you return the Oracle to me unharmed."

 

Sinbad snorts. “I’m to believe someone who he wanted to run away from? He’s _unharmed_ , all right. And he’s staying with me as long as he wants to.”

 

"Do you really think he knows what is best for himself?" Ja'far's eyes narrow. "Tell him I'm here, and see what he has to say." 

 

Sinbad’s eyes glint. “Why should I do that? You’re a stowaway. I should just throw you overboard.”

 

"Try it, and see how fast I claw my way to your cabin and gut you in your sleep." 

 

Sinbad narrows his eyes, then waves a hand at Masrur. “And what the hell is this, by the way?”

 

Masrur blinks up at him. “Of all people, Captain, I thought you’d know.”

 

Ja'far can't help but snort, amused in spite of how _stupid_ the situation is. "Yes, _Captain_ , he has a point," he drawls, eyes lidding. "Or has the Oracle been holding out on you after all?" 

 

Sinbad doesn’t like being made a fool by his enemies or by his friends, though everyone else is fair game. “Is this mutiny?” he demands, holding Masrur’s eyes.

 

“No, Captain.”

 

“Then throw him overboard.”

 

Masrur looks at Ja’far, then back at Sinbad. “Please reconsider.”

 

Sinbad folds his arms. “If a man’s embrace is all it takes to make you change loyalties--”

 

“It isn’t. All I ask is that you leave him alone.”

 

Sinbad grinds his teeth.

 

Ja'far's eyebrows slowly climb, and he settles upon shrugging, running a thumb along the blade of the dagger. "For what it's worth," he mildly informs the captain, "I hardly facilitated this." Probably unwise to throw away such a useful card, but he _is_ in debt to Masrur, no matter what the man says. Plus, he has no doubts that Masrur isn't so useful after all--at least, not when it comes to manipulating him. He's never been good at faking anything romantic to get what he wants, anyway. 

 

Sinbad looks between the two of them for a tense moment. Then, he leans back against the bulkhead, one eyebrow raised. “All right. He wants you kept alive, and on my ship. Speak, what do you want?”

 

"The Oracle." Ja'far decides to leave out the part about killing Sinbad or sinking his ship for now. That can always come later. Al-Sarmen only really cares about Judal, after all. Now that they're actually having a potentially constructive conversation, modesty bids him to claw his way free of Masrur's hold, grabbing for his robe. "Surely you have realized he is far more trouble than he's worth by now." 

 

“What he’s--”

 

Sinbad cuts himself off, disgusted. “You Al-Sarmen types make me sick. A man is _worth_ more than you could imagine, and he should be free to make his own choices. He should be able to go wherever he wants, not be forced to stay where he can be watched and _used_ his whole life.”

 

Ja'far _looks_ at him, nonplussed. "That was a joke, referring to the fact that he nearly shipwrecked you less than a day before. But all right. Let's say he is free to make his own choices. How many times has he complained about not having a full arsenal of servants to brush and comb his hair out since his arrival on this floating heart attack?" 

 

Sinbad’s lip twitches. It isn’t that he doesn’t _enjoy_ having Judal around, but… “He hasn’t asked to go home once, if that’s what you mean.”

 

"And yet he would certainly enjoy you employing enough staff to make this mirror his home. Shall I outline the costs for you? Ah, but you expect him to keep raising dungeons for you, don't you? Unlimited gold." Ja'far's head tilts. "That would be all well and good, if you could actually keep waltzing in and conquering them as you have."

 

Ah. That’s hardly a good subject. Sinbad narrows his eyes, folding his arms across his chest. “Al-Sarmen is well-informed indeed.” 

 

He unsheathes the sword of Baal, letting the light glint off of it. “Fine. Enough talk. Come take him from me, if that’s what you want.”

 

So much for constructive conversation. "Have you accepted his offer?" Ja'far bluntly returns instead, unmoving.

 

Sinbad shrugs. “He says he’s changed his mind, and he’s weary of kings. He wants to be a pirate now. Not that it matters to me.”

 

For once, Ja'far thanks whatever god exists for Judal's ever-changing moods and whims. "Right. Well, let me speak to him. It doesn't have to be alone, I don't care if you're there and sitting him in your lap. If you still want me to best you in a fight after that, then we can have at it." 

 

Sinbad eyes him. “No magic on him. No threats, no tricks, no manipulation. You can _ask_ him if he wants to come home, but if I think you’re trying to force him, I’ll kill you right then and there. That is,” he adds, with something like a glare at Masrur, “if your guard dog will _let_ me.”

 

"Relax, _Captain_ ," Ja'far drawls as he slowly climbs to his feet, hiking his robe up for the barest of seconds to sheath a dagger into the bandages still tightly wrapped about his thigh. "Your _pet_ is too stupid to understand any of _my_ tricks, and I'm no magician, either." 

 

Sinbad doesn’t miss the motion, nor does he miss the way Masrur’s eyes track it, and follow the man as they leave the room. “Masrur,” Sinbad says, “Have this little cave cleaned.”

 

“Understood.”

 

“He won’t be coming back.”

 

“Understood.”

 

The second the door is closed, Sinbad slams Ja’far against the wall, forearm across his throat, eyes deadly. “Do I have your attention?”

 

In a perfect world, he'd have his wires tightly wound about his arms, his blades dropping into his hands in an instant. The past few weeks have been everything but perfect, however, and so Ja'far makes do well enough, a flick of his wrist drawing out one sharp blade from his obi, the point of it nicking into the hollow of Sinbad's throat as his fingers clench so tightly that a vein jumps in the back of his hand. "Yes. Do I have yours?" he breathes, eyes narrowed to slits.

 

Sinbad nods shortly. “You do. I just wanted you to listen to what I had to say without those smart remarks you think are so amusing.”

 

He leans in close, only an inch or two away from Ja’far’s face, eyes glittering. “Attack me. Attack my ship. Attack my people, my friends, my livelihood, and I’ll kill you.” His eyes narrow to mere slits. “But if you harm one hair on Masrur’s head, and I don’t mean physically, I will come after you. I will make you suffer.”

 

Ja'far's face twists, annoyance and a hint of confusion flickering there before he can keep it back. "You have nothing to worry about. I told you, I did nothing to facilitate his actions. In fact, I told him on several occasions to kill me, which he refused. Perhaps you need to have this conversation with him, not me."

 

Sinbad snorts. “You mean to say he had you writhing on him like a whore without your consent? Next you’ll tell me you beat him in arm-wrestling too.”

 

"That…" An irritated exhale follows, and Ja'far shoves at Sinbad's arm, tiring of their close proximity. "That was a mistake. Believe it or not, I have made no less than a dozen of those lately, starting with allowing my charge to speak with _you_." 

 

Sinbad lets himself be shoved back, giving Ja’far a short nod. “As long as you know I mean what I say. I take that boy’s well-being very seriously. I have no intention of letting you hurt him.”

 

"… I believe he was everything _but_ hurt," Ja'far snidely replies. 

 

Sinbad favors him with another glare. _He’s not your toy, not your pawn, not your charge,_ he wants to say, _and if you ever lay a finger on him again--_

 

He can’t, of course. Masrur is an adult. 

 

“Come on. And wait outside, if Judal doesn’t want to see you, he doesn’t have to.”

 

"Fine." Honestly, Ja'far wonders if Sinbad realizes that vocalizing his disapproval simply makes him want to _do it more_. In some ways, he supposes he still has something of a petty streak--at least, when dealing with people he dislikes.

 

Sinbad doesn’t _want_ Ja’far anywhere near Judal, any more than he wants the man anywhere near Masrur, or even his damned ship. But he’s here, and kidnapping Judal was always supposed to be a fun game, not anything to keep the boy in chains as his slave. 

 

Leaving Ja’far outside, Sinbad retreats into the Captain’s Cabin, waking Judal with a trail of kisses up his neck. The boy looks good, sweeter than he does when he’s awake, and Sinbad smiles fondly down at him. “Judal. Wake up a bit for me, will you?”

 

Slowly, Judal stirs, whining low in protest and squeezing his eyes shut. "Don't wanna. Pirates don't have to get up," he mumbles sleepily, squishing his face down into a pillow.

 

Sinbad hesitates, then shrugs. He doesn’t care if Ja’far waits all day, really. “All right.” He climbs onto the bed, curling up behind Judal and kissing his neck, snuggling down into the pillows.

 

Judal lets out a happy, content little sigh, and snuggles back into Sinbad, promptly dozing back off without another sound.

 

And so Ja'far waits. 

 

And _waits_. 

 

There's something to be said about his patience, and that's that it has reached an all-time point of being thin. Also, whoever invented ships should be _shot_ , considering apparently, it's all the more easy to feel the damned thing's sway on deck, which in turn makes him feel sicker than he has in days. Clinging to the railing and trying not to lose what little food he's managed to keep down that day is _not_ his idea of a successful conversation at all.

 

It’s probably six or seven hours later that the shift-change whistle wakes Sinbad, and he stirs from sleep, arms snuggled around Judal. He brushes a little kiss to the boy’s ear, grinning. “Does this pirate want to wake up yet? For food?”

 

Judal perks up at that, his eyes cracking open just a bit. "Food is good," he sighs out, wriggling back against Sinbad. "But don't wanna get up. Do pirates have to have legs or can they be worms?"

 

A few weeks ago, Sinbad would have been confused. Now, he’s gotten used to Judal. “I could carry this worm to the galley,” he allows, “but we’d have to pass by someone who wants to talk to you.” He makes a face. “Your babysitter stowed away last time we put into port.”

 

At that, Judal's face goes pale, and he promptly yanks up a blanket over his head. "Never leaving. Gonna just stay and starve."

 

Sinbad snorts. “ _Hardly_. I told him you wouldn’t talk to him if you didn’t want to, and that I’d throw him over the side of the ship if you wanted me to.” He stretches out, peeling the blanket back. “He seemed to think you’d want to talk to him. I knew I should have just chucked him overboard.”

 

Judal hesitates at that, looking up at Sinbad with wide eyes. "I don't want to talk to him. But… I don't want you to throw him overboard, either. I just don't wanna listen to him scold me. He _nags_ , and tells me what to do, and it's no fun." His voice drops. "Everyone says I don't have a mother, but I think that's a lie. _Ja'far_ acts like one, or at least like they do in books and stuff."

 

Sinbad shrugs, then tightens his arms. “I told you, you don’t have to talk to him. But if you _did_ ,” he suggests, with a little grin, “we could play a game. You can sit on my lap, and all you’d have to do is squeeze my hand and I’ll kick him out.”

 

"… He can be really mean sometimes, though," Judal hesitantly replies. "I don't want him to hurt you."

 

“Don’t worry about me.” Sinbad tweaks Judal’s nose, then nips it softly with his teeth. “I know I look pretty, but I’m pretty _tough_ , too.”

 

Judal frowns, but slowly nods all the same. "All right. If you really think you can kick him out…" 

 

Sinbad smiles. “Trust me. Have I let you down yet?” Knowing that he hasn’t, he stretches out, wriggling bare feet on the deck before opening the door. “You can come in,” he calls to the figure vomiting off the deck. “Remember our deal. You upset him, I kick you out. And you won’t like it.”

 

Ja'far wants to throw up on _him_.

 

He pries himself away from the railing, wiping his mouth and fixing a dark-eyed glare on Sinbad. Somehow, Ja'far is paler than usual--quite a feat, all things considered. "Whatever," he mutters, and he steps inside, eyeballing Judal immediately. "Have you been  having _fun_ , Judal?"

 

The Magi winces. There's that tone of voice that he _hates_. "Um… mostly."

 

"Wonderful. I'm sure Kouen is missing you."

 

"But he doesn't want to be a pirate."

 

"No, he wants to be a king, and that's _a lot easier_ when he has a Magi."

 

“I don’t see how that’s Judal’s problem,” Sinbad interrupts. He settles the boy firmly on his lap, wrapping an arm around his waist. “Let Kouen steal himself a kingdom by murdering his family if he wants, being second-in-line is a lot closer to a throne than most mere humans get handed. What’s wrong with having a little fun instead?”

 

Ja'far is certain, in that moment, that Sinbad is the absolute exact kind of person that he hates the most. Drawing in a steadying breath--and trying not to let his face turn green when the ship lurches a bit--Ja'far somehow manages to keep his voice _calm_. "The Kou Empire's princes have much better things to do than murder one another for succession," he lowly retorts. "And there's a little thing called _responsibility_ \--"

 

"Too much work," Judal grumbles, settling back against Sinbad with a huff. "I just wanna be a pirate now. Kings are dumb."

 

Ja'far nearly rips his hair out in frustration. "Judal," he _calmly_ says, "if you don't leave with me now, someone else will come for you. Whoever my replacement is, _you won't like them_." 

 

“Then I will end that conversation,” Sinbad says calmly, but with a hint of menace in his tone, “as I am ending this one. Your audience is at an end, Assassin. Go back to the hold. I’ll put in to port in the next couple of days, and you will get off my ship. Are we clear?”

 

Ja'far's teeth grit, slow-burning _rage_ quickly flickering into a flame. "I don't deign to listen to _pirates_ , especially when they tell me when and how I can speak with _my_ charge," he snaps out. "The Oracle _will_ be leaving this ship, whether you like it or not." 

 

Judal, for his part, looks a little pale as well. "… Am I in a lot of trouble?"

 

Grinding his teeth, Ja'far tries to keep his voice level. "If you don't leave with me, you have _no idea_." 

 

Sinbad lifts Judal by the waist, setting him firmly on the bed. “Out of my cabin.” He rises, hand not quite on the hilt of his sword, but not far from it either. “Or we’ll find out just how much of your _title_ is just for show.” He opens the door, muscles tense, eyes locked on the smaller man as he looms over him.

 

What a testosterone-driven _idiot_. 

 

Ja'far thinks on how much he'll enjoy the day that he cuts this asshat's balls off as an added favor, just before killing him. Now, however, is a time to pick his battles, no matter how angry he is. He isn't entirely well, his responses too sluggish still for his liking, and he certainly didn't _earn_ his title by being a fool enough to rise to every challenge. 

 

Still--he doesn't budge an inch for another moment, his eyes sharp when they meet Sinbad's before he turns, taking a long-strided step out. "Think about it, Judal." _You don't want a magician as your keeper, trust me._

 

The Magi just huddles into a ball, and Ja'far starts resigning himself to this being a lost battle after all. 

 

Sinbad follows him for a moment, just enough to say, “I hope you know that if it were anyone other than Masrur who’d pleaded for your life, either your head or your body, but not both, would be in the ocean. You owe him. Not than someone as cold-blooded as you can feel gratitude, not the way you just ruined every bit of the happiness that boy’s ever felt.”

 

There goes every last hope of biting his temper back, really.

 

Ja'far whirls around, uncaring about the _lurch_ it causes in his stomach. "You are so damnably _set_ on assuming things that you didn't listen to a word I said, did you?" he snarls, fingers twitching with the urge to draw both of his blades from where they lay tucked at his sides. "If it isn't me who brings Judal home, it will be someone else. Someone else, I might add, that hasn't been his keeper for the past decade. I have no desire to ruin his _happiness_ \--I merely have a job to do, and that's keeping him safe and unharmed, a task _you_ know nothing about!"

 

“There’s more to being _safe_ and _unharmed_ than being physically protected!” Sinbad snarls, hands at his sides, just _itching_ for Ja’far to draw first, so he could say he’d had no choice. “Your precious _organization_ hasn’t been able to touch me in the ten years they’ve been trying, so forgive me if I’m not _afraid_ of them! You’re just furious that you’re up against someone you can’t bully out of your way! Leave the boy alone, and if your _masters_ know what’s good for them, they won’t send anyone else. I’m keeping him safe and unharmed, in case you haven’t noticed!”

 

"You're a _crutch_ , you asinine sack of shit," Ja'far lowly bites out. "Do you know why he summoned you like a dog in the first place? To make his _real_ king jealous. Lo and behold, it worked, so of course he'd _try it again._ " He laughs, though the sound is far from amused. "Be unafraid for all I care. You've had the equivalent of foot soldiers sent to your doorstep in the past-- _information gatherers_. You've done a marvelous job of telling us all we've ever needed to know, thank you for that." 

 

“I wouldn’t want your soldiers to be as easy to defeat as the ones you’ve sent so far,” Sinbad snaps back, taking a step forward. “If I’m a crutch, what does that make you, cold-hearted spider? Chasing him around, making sure _no one touches him_ \--except for the king chosen for him. You’ve been prostituting him since he was a child, he _told_ me. But that means nothing to someone like you, does it?”

 

Ja'far pauses, mouth opening and shutting as he _stares_. "… He told you _what_ , exactly?" God, of _course_ Judal would lie to get all the sympathy and attention in the world. The little _brat_.

 

“Told me you trussed him up in golden jewelry with matching gold handcuffs,” Sinbad spits, “and tossed him into Kouen’s bed. Did you leave him alone there? Or did it get you off to watch him cry?”

 

It's so _wrong_ that it would be funny if it didn't make his life a dozen times more difficult. Ja'far tilts his head back, breathing a long, calming breath, and tries not to think about the night in question, wherein _Kouen_ had been the rather flustered one, and Judal a little giggly from too-much wine, pawing at the prince's robes as Ja'far attempted to pry him off. "Did it ever occur to you," he slowly attempts, "that the little wretch enjoys lying to see what sort of sympathetic reaction he can garner from others?"

 

Sinbad glares, folding his arms over his chest. “Because Al-Sarmen is known for being so honest and open about all their dealings? He’s barely sixteen, what reason could he have to lie, I already did everything he asked! I don’t _like_ child slavers.”

 

"Because he's a brat and an attention whore, that's why," Ja'far snaps, making an honest attempt to not draw a blade again and slice Sinbad's throat to make this ridiculous conversation end. "Ask him to retell any story twice and watch the details change, if you want proof. Ah, but I forgot, you are so intent on assuming I want the worst for him that none of that matters." 

 

“Why shouldn’t I assume the worst of you?” Sinbad demands. “You’re Al-Sarmen! Your entire mission in life is to bring war and chaos and death! You rip families apart, you murder whole countries--you’ve got so much blood on your hands you can’t even grip a moral point. Was it a _lie_ that your people murdered his family when he was an infant?”

 

Ja'far _so_ does enjoy hearing this spiel time and time again. "You sound so personally affronted," is his deadpan retort. "And no, _that_ wasn't a lie." 

 

Sinbad’s smile thins. “It is personal. And even if it weren’t, I’d want to stop you, because you’re wrong. How can you talk about his personal welfare when you murdered his family?”

 

"Because were it _my_ decision," Ja'far shortly replies, "it wouldn't have happened. If I'm doing the math correctly, I believe I wasn't even in Al-Sarmen's direct employ at the time."

 

“You work for them,” Sinbad points out. “You do their dirty work, and don’t question their orders. But you think you’re _better_ than them?”

 

"Hardly. Merely that there are a dozen more logical decisions to be made more often than not." _There is a_ reason _why I am in charge of our most precious commodity, you ass._

 

“Ah.” Sinbad sneers. “Bringing chaos and death and destruction more efficiently. Really, you should have statues built to your honor.”

 

"You're an idiot," Ja'far matter-of-factly states, not batting an eye. "Think what you will, but my only objective here is to see that the Oracle is returned safely. And he _will_ be returned, either by my hand or another's. I can assure you that I will do so the most peacefully, which will be to your advantage if you do not want your ship left burning in the open sea."

 

“This is a waste of time.” With every passing moment, Sinbad just wants to kill the small man more and more. Speaking of people as game pieces, as numbers on a ledger instead of lives and interests and laughs and tears and all the things that make the world worth living for, moving them from column to column whenever it suits them...Sinbad wants to tear the man into a thousand pieces, this cold Al-Sarmen accountant.

 

He turns, calling to his pilot, “Set course for the nearest port! We’re making a quick stop.”

 

“Hard port, Cap’n!”

 

“Go back to the hold,” Sinbad growls to Ja’far, “before I put you there.”

 

"Gladly," is the annoyed mutter to follow, and Ja'far turns on his heel to do just that. At least he gets less seasick below deck, though that isn't saying much. 

 

Contrary to Sinbad’s orders, Masrur has not so much _removed_ the cot as he has _cleaned_ it, dried it, and set it back up, as comfortably as he could make it. He starts at Ja’far’s entrance, relaxing at little when he sees who it is.

 

Ja'far pauses in the doorway, the annoyance in his expression shifting marginally to something more wry. It's odd, and furthermore, it's _troublesome_ that he should feel some sort of relief in seeing the Fanalis after talking to his infuriating captain. "He won't punish you for your disobedience?" Really, if he needs to sleep on the floor, it wouldn't be the first time. 

 

Masrur shrugs. “He never has to date. I’ve been with him nine years.”

 

The assassin offers him a sort of quizzical look, but Ja'far doesn't bother questioning it as he steps back in, rather gracelessly flopping down onto the cot's edge. Yes, it was a wise decision not to pick a fight with Sinbad. He would have lost in his current state without a doubt. "It probably matters little to you," he slowly says, lifting his head to look at Masrur, "but the welfare and return of that Magi is the only assignment I'm concerned with at this time. I have never… harmed him, nor would I see him harmed." _Why_ he feels the need to tell someone that, someone that might actually _believe him_ , is beyond him. Perhaps he has gotten too used to Kou, where such knowledge is a given, no matter the lies that Judal spouts for attention. 

 

Masrur blinks. “I know,” he says, as if it’s as plain as the freckles on Ja’far’s nose. To him, it is. No one who worries as much about someone as Ja’far does about the Magi could have anything other than concern on his mind. “Do you need your bandage changed?”

 

"Your captain thinks otherwise," Ja'far crossly mutters, sighing as he lifts a pair of fingers to rub at the bridge of his nose. "And no, it's fine. I refrained from being too active outside of losing the contents of my stomach--again--over the side of the deck."

 

“Mmm. I brought you broth.” Masrur settles back onto his heels. “Show me your bandage.” Ja’far’s opinion is all well and good, but he can’t see himself down there the way Masrur can, and he’s not responsible for someone else’s welfare the same way.

 

Ja'far bites down on a protest. Arguing with Masrur is akin to arguing with a brick wall, after all, and so he merely yanks up the hem of his robe disinterestedly. "Thank you, but I'll eat later. You didn't throw my bag over the side of the deck, did you?" He's going to need those poisons to shove down his own throat after all, at this rate. If he somehow fails in this--more likely, with every passing minute--then he does _not_ want to be caught alive by his superiors. 

 

“No. I didn’t want to hurt the fish.”

 

Masrur checks the bandage, and even if the wound hasn’t torn, it could still use a change. He tears the cloth neatly, replacing it with another he’d taken earlier from stores.

 

The reasoning behind it is so bizarre that Ja'far almost has to laugh. "Right. Well, give it to me. I might need it, if your captain drops me off at the next port as he says."

 

“No.” Masrur tucks the ends in securely, but doesn’t release Ja’far’s thigh. “I don’t want you to die.”

 

Ja'far merely sighs, trying not to roll his eyes. "Then find a way to make the Oracle return with me. I was already left for dead once. If I fail this mission, being dead is a far more pleasant fate." 

 

Instead of answering, Masrur strokes a thumb down one of the jagged scars on the inside of Ja’far’s thigh. “This looks like it hurt you.”

 

"… It wasn't one of my shining moments." Ja'far sighs again, dropping down a hand to catch Masrur's wrist. " _Listen_ to me. My death will be the least of your worries if Judal continues to stay here. They won't send agents like me. It will be armies of faceless, mindless magicians with only a single goal in mind, and it won't matter how powerful your captain thinks he is."

 

“What do you care what happens to Sin?” It isn’t accusatory, merely curious, when Ja’far hasn’t seemed to care much about them at all before.

 

Ja'far's mouth twists. "I don't. It's…" An exasperated sound, and Ja'far slides his hand away. "Forget about it. If you don't want to believe me, at least give me my poisons back." 

 

Internally, Masrur flinches. He’s not always good at understanding people, when they talk in abstracts. It’s easiest with Sin, whom he knows best, but Ja’far is still mostly a mystery. “Why not just leave them?”

 

The mere thought of that makes him recoil. "That's impossible. Why would I want to, anyway?" 

 

“Why would you want to die instead?”

 

"You say that as if I have something else to live for and go to, if I left." Ja'far's head tilts. "I told you. I would be better off dead, if I tried to leave. And at least like this, there are things I can do." 

 

“What if Sin is stubborn? He is, you know.”

 

Of course he is. Ja'far can tell that with two seconds of conversation with the idiot. "Then he'll drop me off at that port, and if you don't give me back my poisons, I'll slit my own throat and hope I bleed out before they find me." 

 

Masrur frowns. He doesn’t like the idea of that at all, neither by poison or by the knife. “Then,” he asks again, unclear on the previous answer, “why don’t you leave them?”

 

"Because I _can't_ ," Ja'far snaps, the very idea of such a thing stirring some deep-seated anxiety that he can't quite repress. "If I succeed in this mission, I have no _reason_ to. If I don't bring the Oracle back, then it doesn't matter even if I _want_ to leave. They'll find me and bring me back and make me wish I had killed myself once and for all--so don't ask me that again." 

 

“Understood.” Masrur is good at taking orders, at least. He stands, giving Ja’far a nod. “You want me to go?”

 

"I--" _Not really, it's cold down here and you're warm and I hate all of this and I'm a failure that can't even keep track of a fifteen year old_. 

 

Ja'far swallows. "Just go," he mutters, turning around to flop back onto the cot. "Your captain is probably wondering what's keeping you." 

 

Masrur isn’t quite sure why he feels so cold in his stomach, why it feels like something is clawing at him, but he’s good at living with pain. He nods shortly. “I’ll be back in the morning to check your bandages. Good night.”

 

Ja'far says nothing, and merely curls himself up into a tight ball, shutting his eyes. It's to the point he can't even keep count of the mistakes he's made lately, and that's more terrifying than any threat of death.

 

It’s probably not quite an hour after he leaves that Masrur gets out of his hammock, heading back down to the hold. He opens the door carefully, not wanting to wake Ja’far, knowing he will anyway. Quietly, he asks, “Can I stay?”

 

Ja'far nearly laughs, unmoving still from where he's curled. Why not add another mistake to the pile? It matters little now. "If you want." 

 

This was probably a mistake, Masrur realizes, because he doesn’t know where to sit. Too close would be presuming, but it’s also the reason he’d come here. He sits slowly on the floor, next to the mattress.

 

"Get on the bed, you lout." It comes out as more tired than annoyed. "If you're going to stay, at least let me use you for warmth." 

 

Masrur moves as quickly as if he’s in battle, stretching out immediately on the bed and pulling Ja’far to his chest. He wants to say something about how he’s really not ready, not really, for Ja’far to die by poison or by a knife, but instead he tucks Ja’far’s head under his chin.

 

It's definitely another mistake to slowly unfold and stretch out, the cramps disappearing from his muscles in short order when he has the warmth of Masrur pressed against his back. Ja'far shuts his eyes, leaning his head back. "I'll repay that debt, before your captain throws me off of his ship. What do you want?" 

 

Masrur lays one large hand on Ja’far’s belly, fingers splaying out, feeling the way they breathe together. “You don’t owe me anything. I told you.” _Even if you did, it’s enough to have you here._

 

Ja'far sighs, long, tired, a might bit frustrated, but he's in no mood to argue. Instead, he slowly lets a hand drift down, fingers curling loosely over the other man's. "If you change your mind, tell me."

 

Masrur squeezes gently. It had taken him years to trust himself to do that. “I changed my mind. Tell me about something good in your life. Ever, or now.”

 

It's an odd request, for sure. "… How could that possibly be a proper repayment?" 

 

Masrur huffs out a breath through his nose. “Very well. What do you think is a proper repayment? I’ll take that.”

 

If he weren't stuck on a boat and about to die, he'd offer to kill someone Masrur hated, or something along those lines. "There's nothing good in my life. And things that seem good are just mistakes for all parties involved--you, for example," Ja'far mutters. Mentioning Kouen would also be a mistake to add.

 

Masrur frowns. “This is a mistake? Why?” The ball of cold in his belly warms at the thought that he’s counted as a good thing.

 

"Your captain will probably never trust you the same again. You're being manipulated by an Al-Sarmen whore, _obviously_." 

 

“Sin trusts me.” It’s one of the facts Masrur knows, like that water is wet and fires are hot.

 

"Does he now," Ja'far deadpans. "What would he think if he knew you were down here right now?"

 

“He knows.” Masrur tightens his hold slightly. “There were fresh bandages on my hammock.”

 

Ja'far blinks at that, his brow furrowing in confusion. "… Then he's hoping you'll extract some useful bit of information from me," he settles upon. 

 

“I have probably said,” Masrur says carefully, “more words to you than I have to Sin. In all my life.” He shrugs. “He thinks nothing of me as an interrogator. Nor should he.”

 

"He hates me and wants me dead. What other reason could he have for _humoring_ you?" 

 

Masrur thinks slowly about it. Then, slowly, he says, “I think it’s because I never ask him for anything. He’s like you, he thinks he owes me.”

 

"I must be using up a great deal of his debts to you, then," Ja'far mutters. "Considering how content he'd be to lop my head off." 

 

“Or,” Masrur continues, as if Ja’far hadn’t spoken, “because he’s my friend. And I asked him to let you be.”

 

Ja'far gives up. If there's any logic to be found here, it's hidden away beneath a number of far odder things, and he's _tired_ besides, lulled faster to the edge of sleep by the warmth of Masrur's body than anything he can ever recall. "Fine," he murmurs, shutting his eyes. "Then let's see if he truly does let me be."

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

Sinbad tends to wake rather easily, even out of a sound sleep. The sound of his name, the midshipman’s whistle, the door opening, all bring him awake in a second flat, which is why he’s mildly startled to wake and find that there’s a stranger standing over him.

 

More alarming is that the stranger has a scythe of some sort at his throat, thrumming with dark power. 

 

Sinbad raises an eyebrow at the masked figure. He wants one of three things, obviously. No, make that two, since he probably wouldn’t let Sinbad wake up if he could get here and have him at his mercy so easily. “You must have had one hell of a swim.”

 

Judal actually sleeps better at sea than he ever has on land.

 

It's something about the breeze, the sway of the boat that lulls him, the smell of water and salt spray. Sinbad helps, too. He's warm and solid, something comfortable flop on top of at night, or to curl up into the side of, and tonight is no different when he huddles up close, sleepy little mumbles commenting on the length of Sinbad's hair before he clutches it like a security blanket as he drifts off. 

 

For once, it doesn't last. 

 

The face is familiar, even if it's like something out of a nightmare, and Judal squeaks as he's hauled aside by too-tight grip on his wrist, all but tossed away from the scythe pressed at Sinbad's throat, black rukh bubbling from its honed edge. "Isnan! What are you--"

 

"You have lost the privilege to ask me any questions, Magi." The sharp gaze that flickers briefly to him is anything but kind, and Judal flinches. "You know why I'm here. If you sit and behave while I deal with this pest, I will allow you to remain _conscious_ for the trip back. Or perhaps," Isnan drawls, his wand shoving forward to nick into Sinbad's throat, "we should properly negotiate. Given the right push, you have all the makings of a proper servant to our Father." 

 

“Or perhaps,” Sinbad counters, _cursing_ the fact that his metal vessels are an arm’s reach away, just a bit too far unless his enemy can be _distracted_ , “you can take yourself off my ship, and I won’t send you off of it in pieces.”

 

It’s not exactly an _empty_ threat, though he can feel the power coming from this man in rolling, sickening waves. One foot to the left, and Sinbad would take his chances with any man in the universe, power or no.

 

Isnan smiles thinly. "You think highly of yourself, Sinbad. That arrogance is a good first step, especially when it comes to thinking you're worthy of the Oracle's presence."

 

"Isnan, _please_ ," Judal frantically attempts, reaching out one small hand to grasp at the magician's arm. "I'll go back! I… I was gonna go back, Ja'far said--"

 

"If you have that much pity for this man, then perhaps it is ill-advised that we negotiate after all." 

 

The easy backhand via gravity magic happens before Judal can even think of drawing his wand, distance put between himself and Isnan immediately, no matter how he tries to cling to the man's arm and _stop him_. He flinches in advance, ready to hit the nearby wall of the cabin, but it's a pair of slender, yet strong hands that catch him bare inches before it instead, and Judal stares up, wide-eyed and shaking. "Ja'far--"

 

The sigh that Isnan exhales is long-suffering. "Assassin," he boredly greets, only taking one eye off of Sinbad, and the scythe digs in, a trickle of blood sliding down Sinbad's throat. "And here we thought you dead."

 

"Weapons Dealer," is the curt allowance in return, and Ja'far sets Judal aside, stepping in front of him as his eyes glint bright and yellow in the darkness. "This is new for you, barging in on another's assignments. Masrur, if you would." 

 

Masrur considers his form to be less pure, less powerful on a ship than on solid ground, where he can truly dig his feet in and use all the power the earth has as a fulcrum. Still, even at sea, he’s still a _Fanalis_. 

 

The arrival of Ja’far was all Sinbad had needed to shift to the side, extending his arm and barely brushing over the hilt of the sword of Baal, and Masrur takes that motion as permission to obey the assassin’s orders, feeling the power flood him. “Balalark Kauza!”

 

Even if he hadn’t seen it before, he can _feel_ the Magician’s bolg, less a hard marble, more a bubble waiting to be broken. The power of his household vessel lashes out, crackling with lightning over the shell, and he forces more power into it until the Bolg shatters, leaving his muscles drained and weary, not that he shows it for a second.

 

In the time it takes for Isnan's bolg to shatter, for the magician to whirl around to face Ja'far with churning power crackling about his wand as it slides away from Sinbad's throat, Ja'far has already moved to the man's back once more, a loop of red wire about his neck pulled tight enough that Isnan's choking noises are no longer even audible. "Do not," Ja'far quietly says, "interfere with my work." 

 

Corded muscles bunch in his arms, and Isnan's head rolls to the ground with a sickening _thump_ , the twitching heap of the rest of his body soon to follow. Ja'far kicks his wand away from the body, flicking blood from the wire in his grasp, and Judal, still shaking, darts over, promptly latching himself to Ja'far's waist as he trembles. 

 

Sinbad gets to his feet, eyebrows raised, looking from the head to Ja’far and back again. Sure, it had just been some petty in-fighting, a dispute between co-workers, but still...Ja’far can move _fast_ when he wants to, fast and deadly, and Sinbad can’t help but admire that grace. “Is he really dead?” he asks, prodding the head with the end of his sword. “He didn’t turn into anything like some of you do.”

 

"Cutting off his head delays it somewhat," Ja'far blandly retorts, and he simply lets Judal cling as he bends down to snatch the appendage up by the hair. "Someone like Weapons Dealer can't be killed by any normal means, but this will do for now. Grab the body and his wand and we'll toss it all out to sea." 

 

“Why toss it out to sea?” Sinbad asks, hefting the body up with a suspicious look at the severed neck. “Why not incinerate it? Or bury them separately under a thousand pounds of rock? Masrur can lift that much. Well, not right now,” he amends, as Masrur sinks onto the bed with as much weakness as he’s ever seen the man show. “But by the time we put into port, sure.”

 

"Because none of that changes the amount of time it takes for him to come back." Ja'far turns away, casually winding his wire back around his arm as he walks from the cabin out to the deck, Judal in tow. He tosses Isnan's head down into the water below. "Weapons Dealer is ancient, and has been around since the time of Solomon. There's no need to waste your time attempting something that has no effect on him."

 

Sinbad gives a shrug, then tosses the body over the other side of the ship’s deck. The thousand pounds of rock idea sounds good, but they’re short on rock in the middle of the sea, and he doesn’t want the rotting corpse on board anyway. “I’m still not letting you take the boy back if he doesn’t want to go.”

 

"Judal, go get his wand."

 

The boy nods, just barely untangling himself from Ja'far's waist to do as he's told, and Ja'far's eyes settle upon Sinbad. "I think you'll find he wants to go now. And if he doesn't, I'm still taking him. Are you so fool to think you can handle magicians like that in droves? He had you quite efficiently cornered." 

 

Sinbad folds his arms. “And next week, when he’s wrapped around the prince of Kou and you’re wiping his chin for him, when Weapons Dealer comes back to the land of the living? What happens to the boy then? Or to you?”

 

"If he's returned home and behaves himself, then they'll have no complaints." Ja'far eyebrows climb. "And what do you care of me? Is that sentimentality, for saving your life?" 

 

Sinbad snorts, shoving the idea away. “Hardly. I’d like to send you to join him. But if you’d the only protector this boy has, I won’t send him back to that life just to lose his last defense.” He glares, sickened now. “I wouldn’t think you wanted to leave him with men like that, the way he talks about you.”

 

"Last I heard from you, he was spinning tales of how I offer him up like a slave." Annoying, to think that Sinbad is right in any way. A dispute between coworkers it might have been, but one simply doesn't 'kill' Weapons Dealer and have such an action passed over. There's a price on his head now without a doubt, and Ja'far _knows_ there are very few to no things he can do to make it go away.

 

Judal trots back out a moment later, tossing Isnan's scythe over the side of the ship in short order, and his face promptly finds itself pressed back into Ja'far's back. The assassin doesn't even blink. 

 

“So ask him.” Sinbad walks over behind Ja’far, touching Judal’s cheek. “Judal, sweet, if you go back with Ja’far now, he’ll be killed, and someone like that sorcerer will be your new guardian. Is that what you want to go back to?”

 

"Stop it," Ja'far snaps, twisting around and snatching the Magi away. "Saying it like that is only going to scare him."

 

Judal's head shakes rapidly all the same, and he lifts his head, eyes wide and wet. "I don't like Isnan, and I don't like his friends. But I miss Kouen, and I don't want you to _die_ \--"

 

"Now look what you've done," Ja'far crossly growls in Sinbad's direction, and he promptly shoves Judal's face back  down. "I'm not going to die. Sinbad knows nothing of the situation." 

 

“So tell the boy!” Sinbad demands, annoyed again at the way Ja’far manipulates the Magi, twisting his emotions this way and that. “Tell him what will happen to him and you if you go back now. Judal, you’re a Magi, surely you can tell when he’s lying.”

 

Judal hesitates, looking warily between Sinbad and Ja'far, then back again. "… Not really. He's really good at that…" 

 

"I'm not lying." He's not, really. Even if there's an overwhelming possibility for one outcome, there's a _chance_ he could come out of this alive. "Though I'm curious," Ja'far drawls, "what you expect me to do otherwise, if not return with him." 

 

Sinbad throws up his hands. “Fine. You’re both so determined to throw yourself into a hopeless martyr situation, go. You _saw_ the way Weapons Dealer talked about him, you _know_ he’s got to be in trouble with his own people, and it was him who said that if it wasn’t him, it would be people you _wouldn’t like_. And now he says it’s all fine.” 

 

He sneers at Ja’far. “And you call _him_ a liar.”

 

"Because he is," Ja'far impassively replies.

 

"But I don't want Ja'far to go!" Judal's lower lip trembles as he wriggles away, turning to face Sinbad. "I miss Kouen, but I like being here, too. I don't want anyone to die, isn't there just… something else you can do? You keep talking about how if we go back, they'll kill Ja'far, but he's really strong and wouldn't let anything happen to me and--and you're being a _jerk!_ "

 

The last part, at least, Ja'far finds he can agree with.

 

Sinbad wavers, running a hand back through his hair and sighing out a breath. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap, I just--you know they make me crazy, I told you about that.” He looks at Ja’far, raising an eyebrow. “Any ideas, Assassin? I don’t like you and you don’t like me, but we both like Judal, so….any ideas?”

 

 _Like_ \--what a word. Ja'far prefers 'tolerate.' He refrains from arguing semantics, however. "Not particularly, but I'm nearly impossible for them to track, with how I cloak my magoi," Ja'far offers with a shrug. "And they hardly follow Isnan's movements, he's a solitary sort. We have at least a week before he reports back. So long," he adds with a glance to Judal, "as Judal isn't actively drawing upon the rukh. That's how they track him. That storm was probably how they managed it." 

 

There’s a sinking feeling in Sinbad’s stomach that contrary to his desires, he’s not seen the last of Ja’far yet. Ah, well. The life of a sailor is hardly ever easy, and Sinbad’s not even sure he’d want it to be. “Judal? It’s up to you. You can stay on my ship as long as you want, I told you that.”

 

"… You're gonna keep being mean to Ja'far, aren't you?" Judal prods, pouting up at Sinbad. 

 

"I think that's his default way of functioning, Judal. You expect too much," Ja'far deadpans.

 

" _You're_ being a jerk, too! I'm not gonna _ever_ let you cut your hair."

 

Ja'far's eyes roll skyward. 

 

Sinbad tries to force down the laugh, but it makes itself known as a garbled snort before he can. “If Ja’far is civil on my ship, I see no problem with returning the favor,” he says as gallantly as he can muster. “That includes not alerting Al-Sarmen to our presence or murdering any of my crew, mind.”

 

"Did you miss the past half hour? Why would I feel the desire to alert Al-Sarmen?" Ja'far incredulously retorts. "I have been _nothing_ but civil. I saved your _life_ , you ungrateful brat."

 

“And until five minutes ago, you were talking about taking Judal back to them,” Sinbad points out. “That hardly sounds like someone who has left their employ for good.”

 

Ja'far wants to rip his throat out. "When did I ever say I had left their employ? Just because I am looking for a solution to keep myself from _dying_ doesn't mean I am done with my job." 

 

“You’re running from them, aren’t you?” Sinbad asks. “And telling Judal how to hide from them, your _employers_. How does that keep you in your job?”

 

 _He has a point_ , that little nagging voice says, and Ja'far swallows, a muscle in his jaw jumping. "Occasionally, Al-Sarmen needs to be convinced of an agent's worth. This is one of those times." 

 

“Oh? How is that?” Sinbad folds his arms, looking expectant. “I don’t want to find out later you mean to deliver Judal along with me, trussed up and ready for dinner. You can’t be with them and with us.”

 

"Considering I haven't killed you in your sleep yet, you can rest assured." Rather, saving Sinbad's life and not killing him on his own time is a repayment to Masrur, but Sinbad doesn't need to know that.

 

Sinbad doesn’t move. “Does this mean we’re traveling together? Both of you on my ship, for the foreseeable future? You should ask the captain properly.”

 

Ja'far's eyes narrow, but before he can tell Sinbad where he can shove his _proper asking,_ Judal pipes up with a cheerful, "Yes! We can all be pirates! Hey, Ja'far, you might wanna learn not to be seasick."

 

The assassin twitches visibly. "I'll get right on that." 

 

Oh, this might actually be fun. “If you want to be a proper pirate,” Sinbad says with a slow grin, “Judal knows where we keep the spare clothes. Yours will get torn in an instant. Oh, and Judal has Captive Booty status, but you’ll be expected to crew the ship like anyone else.”

 

It would hardly be the first day he's done hard labor, but it's the way that Sinbad _says it_ that makes him grind his teeth. " _Fine._ " It's just temporary, he tells himself. Very, very temporary, until he figures out how to win favor with Al-Sarmen again and prove his loyalty. 

 

“Excellent! Oh, you can have Masrur show you up, you’ll be manning the rigging with him for the first twelve hours. Then you go on watch.” 

 

Masrur is suddenly _there_ , with a deep rumble of, “Understood.” He looks up at the rigging, rope network stretching from the deck to the top of the sails. “Are you afraid of heights?”

 

Ja'far bites back a comment of what a _stupid_ question that is, considering he scaled his way up an entirely vertical dirt wall in a hole right before Masrur's eyes. Instead, he snorts, unprying Judal from his waist. "Hardly."

 

“Good. Follow me.” Masrur scales the rigging with the ease of long practice, feet finding every rope foothold on his way, climbing a hundred feet in the air before waiting next to a fray in the rope.

 

Al-Sarmen better be _grateful_ for his service by the time he returns. 

 

 _Unlikely_ , Ja'far notes, grinding his teeth before sparing Sinbad a last, annoyed look before following after Masrur with all the ease of a spider climbing its own web. There are worst things that can happen than this, he supposes, though he can't quite think of anything at the moment. 

 

Working in the rigging isn’t an easy task, but it isn’t boring, either. Masrur explains, efficiently and without wasting much time, how to mend a frayed rope, reattach a severed one, but hesitates before he hands over the tar. “It’ll get in your hair,” he points out. “You have to bind it very tightly, like the Captain when he’s on deck.”

 

Rather than bother with that, Ja'far simply produces one of his daggers, grabbing the tail of his hair and slicing through it cleanly. "Judal will be a snot and grow it back out the next time he sees me, unfortunately," Ja'far mutters. "I don't know why he enjoys it so. Just hand over the tar and let me get to work." 

 

Masrur smiles slightly, reaching over and threading a hand through the small hairs hanging around Ja’far’s face. “These too,” he murmurs. “They’ll get in the tar. That’s why I keep mine so short.”

 

The dagger flashes, and the wisps of his hair neatly fall away. "I would _like_ to keep my hair short. It isn't exactly helpful for an assassin to have long hair in any fashion."

 

“They’re nice to touch.” Masrur’s cheeks flush the tiniest bit pink at that, and he hands over the tar, wrapping a leg around the ropes to hold himself upright, using both hands to bring the rope together for Ja’far to fix.

 

It's a better compliment than Judal pays him, insisting that keeping his hair long makes him _prettier_ , but Ja'far sighs a little all the same at the look on Masrur's face, shoving his dagger back into place before mending the rope with the ease of being a quick learner. "You know you're better off not getting attached, don't you?" There's no gentler way to phrase it, and if there is, Ja'far isn't sure he'd attempt it, anyway.

 

Masrur nods shortly. Anyone could see that. “Understood. Come on, we have more holes to fix higher up.”

 

 _And yet you keep looking at me like that._ Awkward. Ja'far has never been able to figure out how to deal with genuine affection (what little he's ever been offered), and so he decides it's best just not to talk about it. "All right. Let's finish up, then." 

 

 

~~

 

Not only does Judal make his hair grow back, but he grows it back _longer_ , claiming 'that's the length he remembers it being at.'

 

Ja'far nearly throws himself overboard. 

 

It isn't the work. It isn't even Sinbad's obnoxiously smirking face, enjoying having a shred of leverage over him. There isn't anything else Ja'far can do at this point, anyway; he's either stuck on this boat, or tossed out on land, or he could return to Kou, but the latter two are surely asking for his death within the near, rather than distant, future.

 

No, it's mostly the fact that he _burns_ in the sun, and there's really no helping it.

 

Fortunately, he manages to find where Masrur has hidden his bag, and confiscating it back into his own devices, grabs for the aloe before he does the poison. He twists the length of his now-braided hair up, keeping it off of his burnt shoulders for now. _Just kill Sinbad_ , that little voice urges him. _That will make Al-Sarmen trust in you and want you._

 

If only that were a guarantee.

 

 _Don’t get attached_ , Ja’far had told him. 

 

Surely that doesn’t mean he’s not allowed to be _nice_ to the man.

 

Masrur picks his way down to the hold, wincing in sympathy at the sight that meets his eyes. “I was going to offer you a hammock,” he says by way of introduction. “They’re better when you have seasickness. But it would hurt with a burn like that.”

 

"Pass," Ja'far mutters, and promptly smears a generous amount of aloe over his face, twitching a little at the way it tingles against his skin. "I can't sleep around anyone else, anyway, so it's best if I stay down here." He hesitates, then spares a glance up at Masrur. "Would you mind helping? I can't exactly reach my back on my own." 

 

Masrur knees behind the assassin, taking the bottle and smearing a generous amount over the freckled lean muscle of Ja’far’s back, wincing at the way his rough hands must feel against such tender, injured skin. There are old scars here, enough to rival his own, and Masrur can’t even tell what some of them were from.

 

It _hurts_ , but leaving it be will certainly make it worse, and Ja'far has also _endured_ worse, besides. He sucks in a slow breath, letting his head tip forward as he lids his eyes. "I think," he dryly murmurs, "I am too pale to be a pirate." 

 

“Probably.” Masrur is as gentle as he can be, tipping the bottle out a few times, though he tries not to use _all_ of it. This is quality stuff, not the cheap distilled lotion they usually pick up as a matter of course to have on hand for the really bad days. “You didn’t complain.”

 

Ja'far refrains from shrugging. "About what, exactly? In case you haven't noticed, I have few options. That's enough, by the way." He'd like to think he'd build up a resistance, but even after so many years of being in or around deserts, he never has. He just _burns_ (and then gets a dozen more freckles for his trouble).

 

Masrur draws his hand back, wiping what he can back into the bottle and capping it tightly before handing it over. “Why did you save Sin?”

 

The bottle finds its way back into his bag, and Ja'far tries not to think about how nice it would be to smoke right about then, maybe even some of the stuff Koumei always attempts to shove at him. Being high might ease a few of his aches and pains at least. "That was simply by proxy. I was saving Judal." 

 

“You could have waited until he killed Sin. Sin would have given him a reason, he’s good at that.”

 

Ja'far bites down on a sigh. He's too tired and sore and sick for this discussion. "Consider it repayment," he mumbles tiredly, an awkward admission, but one that he _apparently_ just needs to come out and offer all the same. "You saved my life. I saved your captain's." 

 

Masrur nods in satisfaction. That makes sense. “Thank you. If I could have chosen, that is what I would have chosen.”

 

"If he gets himself cornered next time, I have no guarantees," Ja'far warns, sighing as he shifts, reaching up to unpin his hair now that the aloe on his back has mostly dried. "Especially knowing he takes some sort of sick pleasure in watching me burn in the hot sun." Or get seasick at every turn. Who knew, the higher one goes up, the more one can feel the ship _sway_. 

 

Masrur’s hands close over Ja’far’s, carefully unpinning his hair to let it spill down his back. “He thought you wouldn’t be able to last in the rigging. Most men don’t, at first.”

 

It's odd, that it suddenly isn't so bad that his hair is long and in the way of everything. At best, Ja'far has only ever cared for it as a decent handle (though Kouen, too, has had his moments of marveling at the fineness of it, something Ja'far assured him was a terribly common, boring thing from his home country). Masrur's hands feel strangely nice in it, though, and Ja'far fights down a shiver. "I've had worse punishments. If he wants me to suffer, he can try harder."

 

Since Ja’far doesn’t stop him, Masrur keeps touching, running his fingers gently through the silky strands, combing it carefully back from his face. “You should start eating the food I bring you, or you’ll have worse punishments from your body.”

 

"I eat." It's more like he chokes down broth and a biscuit if he's lucky, and heaves it back up two hours later. Odder still, that Masrur's hands petting his hair make his stomach churn a little bit less even when thinking about all of that.

 

“You need to eat limes. Or your bones will break and your teeth will fall out.” Masrur parts his legs slightly, scooting forward so he can keep playing with Ja’far’s hair without leaning forward and straining his back quite so much.

 

"Fine." It all tastes the same, anyway. Ja'far is fairly certain his tastebuds were fried off long ago, courtesy of massive amounts of poison. He sighs, shutting his eyes, his head tipping forward wearily. "Worry less about me. I don't think your captain understands the breadth of the situation he's in, honestly." 

 

Masrur finger-combs the long strands of hair forward over Ja’far’s shoulder. “Sin’s always in way over his head. He likes it. I still don’t want your teeth to fall out.”

 

"What, you want me chomping down on your shoulders again so badly?" Ja'far dryly returns. "Worry about yourself, too. Everyone on this ship, really; he's marked you all for slaughter."

 

“We don’t live quiet lives.” Masrur can’t help but think, even so, of how nice it had been to have Ja’far’s mouth against his skin. “None of us are on this boat because we want to live to be a hundred.”

 

"Some self-preservation is still a wise decision, don't you think?" Ja'far turns his head to look back over his shoulder. "Though if you are any indication of how the rest of the crew acts when presented with an enemy, I daresay you'll all be dead by the end of this." 

 

“Why? Because I shattered his bolg? I thought you wanted me to.”

 

"… Because you saved me in the _first place_." Sometimes he can't tell if Masrur is slow or just fucking with him. Considering stupid people get on his nerves quite a bit more, Ja'far votes the latter. "Generally, if an injured enemy presents itself to you, you want to kill them."

 

Masrur doesn’t stop playing with Ja’far’s hair. “That’s your problem right there.”

 

"My _problem?_ " 

 

“Yes. You think you and I are enemies.”

 

Ah. Well, Masrur is right about one thing. This is definitely a _problem_. "That's because we are." 

 

“No, we aren’t.”

 

"I don't exactly see you allied with Al-Sarmen." 

 

Masrur is silent. He _hopes_ that speaks for itself, given Ja’far’s recent actions.

 

Ja'far's lips purse. "I don't count. We just happen to share a temporary common goal."

 

“You count your enemies more broadly than I do, then.” Masrur combs his fingers through Ja’far’s hair, adding, “I don’t sit like this with them.”

 

"Like I said--if you're any indication of the rest of Sinbad's men…" Ja'far snorts quietly, dropping his head forward again. "I'm hardly pleasant company." 

 

“Don’t worry.” Masrur lets the strands fall over Ja’far’s shoulder, sitting back on his heels. “None of them are much like me.”

 

With it being said like that, Ja'far is actually unsure if that's reassuring or not. "… Which brings me back to my earlier point. I was serious, you know. You shouldn't get attached to me. The reasons should be obvious." 

 

Masrur lets his hands rest on freckled shoulders, careful of the burns under the aloe. “Tell me if you want me to leave. Otherwise, I assume I can stay.”

 

Ja'far opens his mouth, only to shut it again. Immediately, he's annoyed at his own double standard-- _but I'm not attached, and it isn't as if I haven't made temporary allies before._ "It's cold down here," he mutters, and sinks back a fraction of an inch, "and you're warm. You can stay." 

 

“I think,” Masrur says slowly, “it would be good for you to know that there’s one person you don’t have to be afraid of.”

 

Ja'far jerks within the man's hold, his head immediately turning around as he scowls. "I'm not _afraid_ of anyone." The idea is ludicrous, at best.

 

Ah, that was the wrong thing to say. Masrur doesn’t move, nor does he let his hands fall from Ja’far’s shoulders. “I meant...someone that won’t hurt you.” And that sounds far more romantic than he had intended, but damned if he knows how to fix it.

 

"… This is not a conversation we need to be having on at least a dozen levels." Ja'far turns his head back around with an annoyed shake of it. "None of that really matters. Few people are capable of _hurting me_. And anyway, what are you, 19? 20? Find yourself a good woman, not an assassin that your captain wants dead." 

 

Masrur takes his hands away, sensing that the moment is probably over. He thinks about telling Ja’far his real age, or that most women are afraid of him, or even just that he hadn’t meant it in any kind of an imposition way, but those sound like excuses. “But I found you,” he says instead, logically. “In here.”

 

"Stowed away and bleeding out. Masrur-- _you don't want me._ " There's no better way to try and get it across. Ja'far knows he fails horribly at being anything but blunt with things like this.

 

Masrur blinks at that. “How do you know?”

 

"Because you don't."

 

Masrur frowns. “I can understand you saying I _shouldn’t_ want you. But I do. So….why tell me I don’t?”

 

"Can you never just take something at face value?" Ja'far crossly retorts, and he twists around, dropping back onto his knees as he frowns up at Masrur. "You _don't_. I'm Al-Sarmen's Assassin. Whatever it is you think you want, you're wrong."

 

For a long moment, Masrur sits completely still, in a way he’s never seen anyone else master. Then, he asks, in something like confusion, “Do you want me to leave?”

 

"I--" This is going to give him a headache. Ja'far sighs, letting his head drop forward. "No. You don't have to leave." And that's the troublesome part of all of this, isn't it? Maybe he _should_ be executed, once and for all.

 

“All right then.” Masrur lays his hands back on Ja’far’s shoulders tentatively, as if expecting to be told what he wants again.

 

Maybe it's just best if they don't talk about this at all. Ja'far doesn't want to lose what is essentially a very comfortable basking rock, after all. He sags forward a bit, hooking his chin over Masrur's shoulder once he's close enough. "Aren't you tired?" 

 

“Exhausted,” Masrur admits. “Using my vessel always makes me want to lie down for a day." He curls his arms around Ja’far’s back, a dozen times more comfortable like this than awkwardly playing with the man’s hair.

 

"… So lie down for a day." Ja'far gives his chest a little nudge with one hand to coax him down onto the cot. "I'll take your watch shift in the morning." That, he decides, can be repayment for being essentially nursed back to health. 

 

Masrur lays down with a sigh, slinging an arm around the smaller man, pulling him close with a kiss to his cheek. “I’ll be fine in the morning if I can sleep here with you.”

 

The most _annoying_ thing is when a person insists on doing a dozen and a half things for him, and yet doesn't let him keep the score even. Ja'far frowns, but finds himself too tired to argue with the veritable brick wall that Masrur tends to be, and simply flops down. "… Are household vessels always so tiring? I've helped conquer many dungeons, and never been able to be granted one. I'm starting to think that's for the best."

 

“Not all of them. It depends. Mine depends on the use of my muscles, and carries me past their natural limits. I can use them against anything physical or magical when I use it. But that always has a price later. Some are easier than others.”

 

Ja'far's eyes lid thoughtfully. "A pity, that it only has a limited use. Ah, well. I've rarely needed the use of my magoi outside of cloaking myself, anyway. I doubt a vessel would change that very much." _As if I'll ever help Kouen conquer another dungeon, at this rate_. 

 

“It probably didn’t take because you weren’t loyal enough,” Masrur suggests thoughtfully. “Sin has studied all the dungeon conquerors, he says it’s only the ones with truly loyal followers who can give them household vessels.”

 

"Maybe. I don't serve the Kou Empire, after all, and that's whom I've been assisting. It doesn't matter, though." Ja'far rolls onto his stomach, flopping properly atop Masrur's chest. "It would just be another useful tool to have." 

 

A tiny smile creases Masrur’s mouth, and he brings his hands up, cradling Ja’far’s back and waist. “Were you very sore?” he asks, almost shyly.

 

Ja'far's mouth twists, amusement almost flickering over his face. "If I say 'yes', is that going to stop you from doing it again?" 

 

“Probably not,” Masrur admits. “If you want to, I mean. Ever. It felt too good to say no.”

 

"It was good." Ja'far stretches out, a little entertained, in spite of himself, at how much room he has even lying atop Masrur like this. "Next time, though, believe me when I say it's fine to be a little less gentle." 

 

Masrur takes a slow breath. “It’s...difficult. The difference between being gentle and murdering you...it’s very small. I don’t mean to scare you, I can control it, but it’s...difficult.” He reaches to the side, picking up the wooden bowl he’d brought broth in, and brings his index fingertip and thumb together, opening them to reveal a fingertip-sized hole in the bowl and wood powder between his fingers.

 

"… That's less scaring me and more turning me on." Ja'far wonders if Masrur realizes exactly how many screws loose he has yet.

 

Masrur hesitates, then suggests, “Maybe you could help me….calibrate it. I squeeze, you tell me when you like it, and I’ll remember?”

 

And what does it say about Masrur that he barely even bats an eye at his reaction? Ja'far snorts, pressing his face down into the man's shoulder. "That works. I daresay I will ruin you for most others, though. My pain tolerance is… abnormal." 

 

Masrur runs his hands up and down Ja’far’s back, trying to avoid the burned areas, sticking mainly to his waist and sides instead. “Just tell me where you want my hands. I can handle being ruined.”

 

 _You say that now_. Ja'far decides not to protest and savor the slide of Masrur's hands instead, a pleasant shiver going down his spine and taking his mind firmly off of sunburns and seasickness. "Lower," he murmurs, shifting to reach down and grasp one of Masrur's hands, pushing it down to the curve of his ass. "If you're going to grab, do it here." 

 

Masrur’s other hand follows suit, both of them cupping Ja’far’s ass entirely, the smooth curve of pale flesh supple and yielding under his large hands. Experimentally, Masrur curls his fingers, squeezing just a tiny bit harder with every second. “Tell me when to stop.”

 

Ja'far can actually feel when the squeeze of Masrur's fingers start to leave bruises, when it starts to ache and make him squirm, but it isn't until there's something of an _edge_ that makes him set his teeth to a hiss that he flexes his nails against Masrur's shoulder. "R-right about… there," Ja'far manages, and probably, he should feel a little more ashamed of how hard he is against Masrur's stomach just from that effortless display of strength.

 

Masrur nods, pausing the squeeze and _remembering_ exactly how hard it was, just as he remembers how fast to aim a blow for maximum effect, and when to stop it. He feels Ja’far hardening against him, and ah, that makes him harden in response, only making him question a little why this is true with Ja’far when it’s never been a man before. “Anywhere….else? You want me to hold you by?”

 

"Anywhere." That's not particularly a lie, though Ja'far decides to be a bit more helpful after he sucks in a calming breath. "Waist, hips… that's all fine," he murmurs, tucking his head underneath Masrur's chin. "Thighs, now that I'm healed up. You seem to like my hair well enough; you can pull it, that's it's only use, I think." 

 

Masrur rolls his hips, rubbing his cock up against Ja’far’s, hands sliding up to his hips, trying to hold him the same way, hoping he gets it right and neither annoys him nor turns his bones to powder. It would be too easy to lose control like this, hard and aching and eager, and Masrur can tell he’s already so close to such a thing.

 

Ja'far muffles a groan into the side of Masrur's neck, his lips parting to let his teeth nip into the arc of his throat. "Good," he fairly purrs, eyes lidding as he wriggles, letting his hips rut down, the thick, hard slide of Masrur's cock up against him enough to make his breath hitch. "If you want… I don't have to be on top like this. You can hold me down." 

 

Masrur is starting to get that when Ja’far suggests that he _could_ do something, it’s a plea for him to do it, and as soon as he can. He rolls them over, maneuvering a bit to get them both firmly on the cot, and presses Ja’far down. He can hardly do anything else, not with his own weight the way it is, and he does _like_ the slick, eager slide of his cock against Ja’far’s, and this position makes it a _lot_ easier to kiss Ja’far’s lips, as deep and as thorough as he wants.

 

Just Masrur's weight is enough, really, and Ja'far pants out a hot breath between kisses, his legs splaying wide enough that they ache, all the better to accommodate the man between his thighs. His toes curl with the upward lurch of his hips, the sticky, slick slide of his cock against Masrur's, and Ja'far wriggles a hand between them, fingers dragging over the head of Masrur's cock and over his own as well, eyes fluttering. 

 

Masrur likes the way Ja’far’s fingers are so delicate, slender and clever and nimble over the head of his cock, stroking lightly up and down. It helps him remember that it’s not just _him_ , he’s not _alone_ , there’s someone here who knows what he’s doing and does it _well_. He nestles down between Ja’far’s spread legs, the bulk of him barely fitting, hands moving to spread those thighs apart, being gentler there by several degrees, a little afraid to tear open his wound.

 

Ja'far bites down into his own lower lip, the stretch and strain of his legs being spread so wide dancing on the border of _too much_ already. He sucks in a steadying breath, trying to ignore the way his cock throbs so eagerly, and he throws a hand aside for his bag, rummaging blindly through it. Aloe's best for this sort of thing, but he can't afford to waste it when he's out to sea, but other oils are decent enough, and sweet-smelling almond oil good in a pinch (bonus, if he doesn't tell Masrur he carries it to mask the scent of a dozen more potent poisons). "Here," he breathily murmurs, pushing the bottle down into one, large hand. "You want inside, don't you? It should be a bit easier, with me on my back like this." 

 

Masrur bites back the question of _easier for whom?_ when he’s had at least one girl tell him it absolutely wouldn’t work like that. But Ja’far isn’t a girl, though Masrur is surprised to find out how much _easier_ it is with a man. More than anything, he’s startled at how much Ja’far seems to _like_ it, at least as much as Masrur does, and he’d never thought anything could feel that good.

 

He pours the oil into his hand, slicking down the length of his cock before nudging up between Ja’far’s legs. “Let me know when you’re ready,” he says, a little out of breath already.

 

Ja'far nods, eagerly wriggling down and feeling his legs bunch and twitch _already_ , just at the head of Masrur's cock pressing against his hole, promising that thick-- _too_ thick, if he's going to be honest about it--stretch that makes him weak and all the more desperate. "Go ahead," he manages, squirming to reach down and draw one of his own legs back with a hand curled about the back of his thigh, opening himself up just a bit more.

 

It’s different, a little more intimidating and a little more exciting, to do it himself instead of letting Ja’far wriggle down on him the way he had before. This way, it’s Masrur’s fault if Ja’far gets hurt, if something goes too fast or terribly wrong or somehow off the rails, but…

 

But it feels unbelievably good to slide his cock in, even if there’s resistance at first that makes him _push_ a bit, even if he winces at the idea that it must hurt a bit, but ah, nothing has ever felt so tight around him. Masrur shudders, holding as still as he can, waiting for Ja’far to adjust.

 

That first, tense slide, when he's just spread around the head of that thick cock, is both the worst and the _best_ , making him tremble and tense, his mouth falling open as he gulps in a ragged, desperate breath. "Go _on_ ," Ja'far insistently groans, his eyes rolling back as his hips twitch down on their own accord, sliding another inch or two of Masrur's cock inside, and god, _nothing_ has ever stretched him so _wide_. 

 

That’s all the encouragement Masrur needs when he’s so _hard_ , and the next slide is quicker than he means it to be, though he slows down again by the third. Ja’far is just so _small_ , so tight inside, and Masrur can’t bite back the groans welling up in his chest at every perfect motion, rocking slick in and out, in and out, feeling Ja’far spasm and twitch around him. He takes one of Ja’far’s hands, lays it flat on his stomach and presses down slightly, feeling the slight bulge of his cock inside every time he rolls his hips in.

 

Ja'far's chest heaves, the effort alone of just _taking_ Masrur enough to make his cock throb, leaking with every twinge and spasm of muscles. Never mind the way it feels when the man moves, especially when he's on his back like this--helpless to do anything but spread his legs as wide as they'll go, to swallow hard when he can feel Masrur both inside and out, the aching stretch of him far too much, filling him _far_ too deep, and god, when he thrusts just a _bit_ , it's enough that Ja'far can feel his cock jutting up into his hand from the _inside._

 

He can't quite find the coordination to keep his leg drawn back anymore, his fingers trembling helplessly as he sags back, thighs a quivering, warm press to Masrur's hips as Ja'far mindlessly ruts down, groaning at the sensation of being so over-full that he can't quite breathe. 

 

Something about the limp, shivering press of Ja’far against him makes this so much better, and Masrur moves slow, deliberate as he thrusts into the smaller man, making certain his thrusts all land where they’re supposed to, stealing a kiss or two when he can, trying _hard_ to make it as good for Ja’far as it is for him. 

 

A soft, sucking kiss to Ja’far’s neck, and Masrur’s hands come up to Ja’far’s sides, squeezing and holding tight, trying to keep him _still_ for a minute so he can thrust more accurately, even as all the primal part of his brain wants to do is throw Ja’far down and take him straight through the hull of the ship. 

 

Which is a bad idea.

 

Ja'far _whines,_ the sound strangled in his throat, breaking into pathetic, groaning little mewls when Masrur keeps hitting him _too_ perfectly, to the point he shakes and twitches and his muscles bunch until it hurts. His mind sort of glazes, then, reduced to nothing but _so full too much can't breathe god just fuck me_ , and with Masrur's hands tight around him, holding him tight, making him take his cock how _he_ wants it, no matter how carefully, Ja'far can't _stand it_.

 

He can barely utter a sound when he comes, noises reduced to breathless, helpless little squeaks and whines when he tries to squirm his way down onto Masrur's cock, sort of half-heartedly fighting the man's hold for the strain of it more than any real attempt. The lingering, twitching spasms make him all the more boneless, that much more pliant, and Ja'far whimpers, head lolling back as he pants up to the rafters. 

 

Masrur hardly even _notices_ the way Ja’far is squirming around, except from how _good_ it makes him feel, squeezing and milking him hard, making him gasp for breath as he brings Ja’far down on his cock over and over, getting more and more urgent with every passing second no matter that he’s _trying, trying so hard_ to be gentle. 

 

He less explodes, more feels like he slides facefirst into an orgasm, body rippling and tensing and he _knows_ he’s too rough when he comes, but at least he doesn’t hear any bones break. That’s a relief, and it’s with the thought of _at least I didn’t hurt him too badly_ that Masrur finally shudders, and lays still.

 

Ja'far can feel the bruises blossom over his flesh now as his mind slowly unfogs, and he groans, shifting, wriggling a little more down against Masrur's cock just to savor it for a moment more when he's that much more slick inside. "Good," he mumbles, blinking hard when it oddly enough becomes an effort just to stay awake. "Really good. Just don't lay on me, too heavy." 

 

Masrur doesn’t so much nod as he does let his head sag, and he rolls slowly to the side,  leaving just an arm draped over Ja’far’s waist. The exhaustion of the day catches up to him all at once, and he doesn’t bother thinking of words. Words are _hard_.

 

It's not quite good enough until Ja'far summons the strength to roll off of his back and press himself securely into the solid warmth of Masrur's chest. Whatever the excuse is tonight, Ja'far doesn't care; he sleeps, and he sleeps _well_ , warm and sated and with no inclination to rise any time soon.


	5. Chapter 5

 

Masrur is late for his shift.

 

Sinbad is honestly unsurprised, and any other day would have told him to take the watch off, after using his household vessel. It had simply slipped his mind, but, well, an infraction is an infraction, and something must be done about it.

 

As soon as the _Sindria_ glides into port, he’s made up his mind. Bedecked in full Captain’s gear, he strides into the hold, unsurprised when he throws open the door to find the pair of them cuddled on the cot he’d ordered destroyed. “First Mate!”

 

Masrur snaps to attention, sliding out from where he’s curled up around Ja’far, stumbling to his feet. “Aye, Captain.”

 

“Your watch was at three bells.”

 

He can see Masrur swallow, and nod.

 

“It’s nine bells. We’re in port.”

 

Ja'far is relatively unacquainted with Masrur's sleeping habits, but his reactions say this is entirely unlike him. It's also unlike _himself_ to sleep for so long, and he stifles a groan, trying not to grimace as he pushes himself up onto his elbows, _trying_ not to cast a glare in Sinbad's direction. "… It was my fault." And that isn't exactly a lie. "If you're going to punish someone, let it be me."

 

“The safety of my ship has been compromised,” Sinbad says thinly, a hard, tight edge to his voice. “That carries consequences.”

 

“Understood.” Sinbad can see this close that Masrur doesn’t flinch in the slightest, no matter that he _knows_ the penalty for sleeping through watch is fifty lashes on every ship in the sea. 

 

“Fifty lashes is a lot, Masrur.”

 

Masrur meets his eyes unwaveringly. 

 

Sinbad sighs. “Very well. I will just have to get creative with your punishment. We’ve docked, I have something in mind. Bring your woman.”

 

Ja'far's head tilts, a sort of amusement playing over his face. "… You have a woman?" he can't help but dryly ask. If that's supposed to make him feel guilty for sleeping with Masrur, Sinbad needs to try again. 

 

Masrur blinks, looking from Ja’far to Sinbad, as confused as the assassin. “I have a woman?”

 

Sinbad wants to groan. And hit something. His humor is totally wasted. “I _meant_ him. He’s part of your distraction, so he’ll share in your punishment.” He rolls his eyes. “Don’t keep me waiting, and both of you, put some clothes on, we’re going ashore.”

 

Ja'far opens and closes his mouth, unable to stop himself from _gawking_ at Sinbad. "I'm no woman, you--" _Don't_ throw a dagger at the back of his head, he tells himself. Just _don't do it_. He growls, turning away, and stiffly makes a grab for his clothing. 

 

Sinbad's 'punishment' is hardly what he expects, though Ja'far supposes it's punishment enough to be dragged ashore, entirely too worried about the possibility of being found. Keeping an eye on Judal simultaneously is a difficult task when they're being ushered into a tavern, though Judal is easily enough distracted for once with some sweet drink shoved into his hands, and he all but flops against Sinbad's side once he settles in, dozing like a kitten in short order. 

 

" _This_ is your idea of a punishment? Taking us out to get _drunk?_ " 

 

Sinbad grins, filling every glass at the table. “I’m hardly going to have one of my men flogged after exhausting himself to protect me. Think of it as a welcoming party as well as a punishment--you wouldn’t have come if I’d just asked!” 

 

He forcibly clinks his mug against Ja’far’s, tipping his head back and draining it in record time to general applause before refilling it. “You’re a part of the crew now,” he says, mock-serious. “We’ve got to get to know you!”

 

Ja'far stares blandly back at him, deciding not to tell him that he doesn't really _drink_. Knowing Sinbad, he'd probably forcibly pour it down his throat. "I'd rather be flogged," he mutters underneath his breath, though he quickly adds, a bit louder: "Fine. Ask, then. I can assure you I'm terribly uninteresting." 

 

“First of all,” Sinbad says, mug already halfway empty, “you have to try and guess some things about us. Guess our ages first! Every one you get wrong, you have to drink.”

 

"You're 25. All assholes are 25." 

 

Sinbad glares, and takes a drink. “Next.”

 

Ja'far smirks, his gaze sliding to Masrur. Well, this one he's less sure about, but… "19?" he hazards. Certainly not older than he is, at any rate.

 

Masrur picks up his cup, then sets it down. “Drink.”

 

The assassin's eyes narrow. "20?" he tries again, taking a careful sip. Ugh. Even _he_ can tell it's swill. 

 

“Drink.”

 

Was he _entirely_ off-base? "You _can't_ be much older than that," he insists, taking another gulp and trying not to cringe. "21? 22?" 

 

Sinbad is choking on laughter as Masrur says without hesitation, “Drink. Twice.”

 

Ja'far scowls, but does it anyway. "At least tell me if I'm going in the right direction. 18?" _Please at least be 18._

 

Masrur picks up his cup, raises it to his lips….then sets it down again. “Drink.”

 

"… 17." He doesn't care if he's right. He downs the rest of his cup, anyway.

 

Sinbad snickers, and Masrur finally drinks.

 

"Didn't you say you wanted to get to know _me?_ " Ja'far is not going to think about how he's been bedding someone only two years older than his charge. He's _not_. He sets his cup down, leaning back with a huff. "Let's hear you guess _my_ age." 

 

Sinbad relaxes, the wine starting to work its magic. “With someone like you, we need a handicap. You drink if we guess within ten years, fair?”

 

"Fair." Ja'far folds his arms. "So, let's hear the starting number." 

 

Sinbad leans forward, scrutinizing Ja’far’s face, eyes narrowed. “Two hundred seventy.”

 

He's so _predictable_ that it's utterly hilarious. Ja'far snorts. "Drink. You can take turns, if you want, unless you want to be falling out of your chairs." 

 

Sinbad starts to protest, but Sharrkan, the pilot, stands up in his chair. “A thousand! Say up or down!”

 

"Down," Ja'far drawls. "Drink." _Drink a_ lot. 

 

“Three hundred!” calls a quiet young man, hair falling into his eyes. “Up or down!”

 

"Drink, keep going down." Ja'far rather gratefully accepts a refill in spite of himself. It isn't _so_ bad once he's had one cup of it, and it isn't like he's _capable_ of getting very drunk himself. All the better, to watch these idiots play a guessing game.

 

The guesses come fast now, from all sides of the table. “Two hundred fifteen!” “A hundred ninety!” “One fifty!” “One ten!”

 

Ja'far shouldn't find so much _entertainment_ in this as he does. "Down." He takes a slow sip of wine. "No more guesses from you, _Captain_?" 

 

Sinbad can’t help but be amused, especially given how much he’s had to drink already. “Seventy-five!”

 

"D-o-w-n." 

 

Sinbad laughs, and drains his mug, refilling it immediately. “Let your man have a turn, eh? Masrur, what do you think?”

 

Masrur turns, looking at Ja’far without blinking for a long minute. Then, “Twenty-two.”

 

Ja'far stares back at him before slowly lifting his cup to drink. How in the _world_ could he even guess that accurately out of _nothing?_

 

The rest of the table _stares_. “Damn,” Sinbad says finally, topping off Ja’far’s glass, “you must have rings like a tree where he can count them!”

 

"… Maybe a scar for every year." Ja'far eyeballs Masrur again before shrugging and taking another, long drink. "Most of Al-Sarmen is among the ages you spouted off, so I suppose I will give you the benefit of the doubt for being so off-base." 

 

“But not you, eh? You have plenty of scars, though, I saw those earlier.” Sinbad leans in, face pleasantly warm now. “How’d you get the ones on your legs?”

 

Ja'far stares back at him, nonplussed. "Do you always stare at the legs of stowaways?" 

 

“That depends on if they’re pretty or not,” Sharrkan butts in, jeering. “If not, there’s always chucking ‘em over the side!”

 

Men are always such _pigs_. Ja'far rolls his eyes, settling upon drinking again. "They were a punishment, from when I was very young," he calmly answers instead. "I was made to slice them open myself, and then stitch them back up with my own wires. My superiors are… creative." 

 

An awkward silence falls over the table. No one seems quite willing to meet Ja’far’s eyes, except Sinbad, who untucks his shirt, lifting it to show a long scar running up one side. “Sewed that one up myself,” he says without a hint of pity, only a bit of interest, before lowering his shirt again. Worst part was the angle, my arms kept getting tired. How old were you?”

 

"About ten. I wouldn't let you near me with a needle, your work is sloppy," Ja'far mildly retorts. "But I suppose with that angle, it's excusable." 

 

“Bone needle,” Sinbad clarifies. “About three inches long. Borrowed it from a laundress when I washed ashore, oh, somewhere on the Dark Continent, I was about...fifteen?” He grabs one of Ja’far’s hands, holding it up to his, showing the difference in size. “You’ve got a lot more agility like that, obviously.”

 

"What were you doing near the _Dark Continent?"_ It shouldn't be so fascinating how much smaller his hands really are compared to Sinbad's, and Ja'far lets it linger there for a second before drawing his arm way, smoothing the long sleeve of his tunic back down his arm. He suddenly feels a bit too armed to be at a veritable _party_ \--no, that's stupid. He can never be too armed (even if there's an arsenal strapped to his thighs and hip, wires and blades aside). "Stealing another dungeon out from underneath the nose of a prince?" 

 

Sinbad laughs, leaning back in his chair, resting his feet up on a beam underneath the sturdy wooden table. “Not many dungeons out there. I was looking for an old friend, I’d heard a prophecy he was down there. My country was in trouble, and I thought he could help.”

 

Ja'far's eyebrows arch at that. "And where are you from, exactly? Partevia? That country has always been in trouble." 

 

“But when you’re a teenager who’s conquered a dungeon, you have this odd idea you can _fix_ it,” Sinbad says with a sigh. “You learn, or you live stupidly, or you die. I learned. Country can’t fix itself, all you can do is save the ones who want to be saved.”

 

"How long did that take you to figure out, your fifth dungeon?" Ja'far wryly says, not _terribly_ unkindly as he lifts his cup to slowly take another sip. "Why not tear it down, start a country of your own in its place? It's something we've half-expected of you for years."

 

Sinbad pushes gently with his feet, chair rocking back as he thinks, pulling a pipe and a bag out of one pocket. “I just wanted to be free of all that,” he says at last, tamping down the bowl and lighting it, taking a long puff. “Free of the politics, free of the backstabbing….I’d like to have a country, but only if I could protect _everyone_. Seems a long way off still. Besides, I have my ship and my freedom.”

 

"Mmm, but for how long? You're getting old for a pirate." That's probably hilarious, coming from an Al-Sarmen member, though Ja'far doesn't bat an eye at the snickering. A little more interesting is the fact Sinbad is smoking in front of him. Well, he can always breathe in the second-hand lot of it.

 

Sinbad grins. “That’s the best part about freedom. You never know how long it’ll last. Makes you seize every day, grab it with both hands and shake it until the good stuff falls out.” He takes another puff, watching the way the assassin’s eyes track the motion of his pipe.

 

"Ridiculous," Ja'far mutters, his eyes lidding as he tries to not breathe too deeply or obviously and instead _drinks_. "You wander around aimlessly without a shred of planning, relying on little but good luck. That _will_ be the end of you, sooner rather than later." 

 

“Then it will be a good end.” Sinbad’s smile widens, and he finally takes pity on the man, offering the pipe. “Do you smoke?”

 

 _How could that possibly ever be a good end?_ Ja'far bites his tongue on that response in favor of a simple, "Yes", and ah, it's difficult not to just _snatch_ that pipe out of Sinbad's hold.

 

Sinbad tosses the bag onto the table in front of Ja’far. “Have as much as you like, that’s the good stuff from Heliohapt. There’s something to be said about running all over the world, eh? Get the best of everything!”

 

"Laem's wares tend to be finer," Ja'far says, not ungratefully, and _god_ , how long has it been since he's smoked? He tries not to shudder, but there's no helping the way his eyes half-close in bliss. "Though," he adds, exhaling a slow stream of smoke, "it's probably difficult for someone like you to get into Laem these days."

 

Sinbad laughs at that, and several around the table join in. “Laem is easy enough, if you know the right people.”

 

“I’m sure he’ll let you try some!” Sharrkan says with something like a leer, ever-enthusiastic about being a roguish pirate no matter how little he fits the type. 

 

 “That,” Sinbad explains with a grin, “is my _private_ store. Keep that in my cabin. For myself and….visitors.”

 

Ja'far snorts at that. "Keep it to yourself. All of it," he adds, far from missing the innuendo, and he offers Sharrkan a withering look. "What are you, 18 at the most? Drink if I'm right and settle down." 

 

“Wrong!”

 

“He’s right,” Sinbad says with a laugh. “Drink and sit down. Better yet, go start a game of draughts, this town looks hungry.” He tosses Sharrkan a bag of clinking gold, and Sharrkan and a few others get up, a few minutes later settling down to a drunken game with some locals.

 

"… You'll bankrupt yourself," Ja'far can't help but say, "if you keep tossing coin out like that in every city." He shouldn't fall into habits so easily, but he's seen enough of Yuu and Ren (and En, on a night they get him drunk) tossing out their money without batting an eye. _No one_ has a mind for numbers these days, apparently.

 

“I have before,” Sinbad admits cheerfully, “and I will again, but these people won’t starve this winter.”

 

"You're something of an idiot. What have they ever done for you, to justify that? You practically have a ship full of children to care for, you know, or are you far more concerned about your benevolent image?" _I'm not thinking about how I'm having sex with one of them._

 

“My ship,” Sinbad points out, “is full of adults. Men, who can put into port in the wilderness and run down great beasts if they have to, or dive into the ocean and slay a sea monster. We do that sometimes, for the coastal nations, lend our services and take a cut of the meat. This town--those men are fathers, husbands. If my men have to eat a little more fish this month so those children can grow up and their mothers don’t take sick and die for lack of a doctor, well, they all knew what they were joining up for with me.”

 

"Are all pirates so stupidly generous?" Ja'far mutters in vague confusion, and he blows a stream of smoke across the table into Sinbad's face. " _None of you_ seem to know the meaning of self-preservation, but I suppose if that's what suits you…"

 

Sinbad probably, _definitely_ shouldn’t find that so erotic. “You know,” he murmurs, leaning forward on his elbows, “we’re not _really_ pirates. Kou calls us that, but we’ve never attacked anyone. We fight back if we’re attacked, but otherwise we do honest work. We’re sailors, and adventurers.”

 

Ja'far's eyebrows climb, and he leans back, drawing up a knee as he lets the pipe dangle between his fingers. "And the snatching up dungeons raised for another part is honest? You've caused Kou a great amount of inconvenience, though I am sure you are proud of that."

 

“A dungeon,” Sinbad says quietly, “is a test. A dungeon is a place. And a dungeon doesn’t belong to anyone but Solomon long-dead, and the man who can conquer it. The Magi who raised my first dungeon told me that.”

 

"Tell that to your 'pet', there." Magi with conflicting ideals-- _lovely_. Ja'far doesn't let himself dwell on the thought. Far better is the fact he's able to sit and smoke and not think about too much, save for how it's a little satisfying to watch Sinbad lean forward like he wants him to keep blowing smoke in his face. "Whatever. It matters not to me in the end, I hardly serve Kou." 

 

Sinbad wants to press, to mention how it sure doesn’t seem like Ja’far really serves Al-Sarmen anymore, not with all the treason he’s been committing….but then Ja’far will probably go back to being pissy and annoying, and this is almost a fun night so far. “So what,” he says instead, “would you recommend I do with my books, and my gold? You seem to have ideas.”

 

Ja'far merely looks at him across the table, amused. " _Now_ you want my opinion? I'm not certain you can afford it, Captain."

 

Sinbad shrugs, reminding himself not to just _punch_ the little bastard, no matter how good it might feel. “Think of it as self-preservation. For better or worse, you’re part of our group, now. Might behoove you to make certain we have food money.”

 

"It would take an actual ledger to sit and write out all the things you could be doing differently." 'Self-preservation' his ass. These pirates aren't capable of any of that, and it's terribly entertaining to think of Sinbad trying. Better, though, is refilling the pipe and breathing out another stream of smoke. "And, for that matter--it isn't as if I eat much on your ship, anyway. Judal, on the other hand…"

 

Sinbad grins. “I told you, we can take care of ourselves. If you want to _trust_ us with your well-being, that’s fine by me.” 

 

His eyes lid, and he murmurs, “It’s kind of erotic, the way you smoke that thing.”

 

 _'Trust_ ' his ass. "Shall I write it all down for you when we return to the ship?" Ja'far lowly retorts, and he can't quite help the chance to blow more smoke into Sinbad's face. "You're just drunk." 

 

“I am drunk,” Sinbad readily admits, and takes that as a reminder to refill his glass. “Drunk enough to ask for the opinion of a bottom-feeder that spits on the hard work my men do. It was a stupid mistake.”

 

Ja'far can't help but snort, the urge to roll his eyes impossible to resist. " _Please_. I haven't spit on anything, I've mended my fair share of ropes over the past couple of days and burnt off a good portion of my skin. _Maybe_ I just don't like it when pirate captains leer at me."

 

“You must have really grown to love the sun on your skin!” Sinbad says in mock-surprise. “I’d have thought you’d jump at the chance to spend a few days in a cabin bent over some books. My apologies, I didn’t take you for quite the salty tar you are.”

 

"… You're _serious_." Ja'far can only look at him, a mixed confused and annoyed. "You actually _want_ me to nitpick your books for you? And when it's all said and done and you realize I am very good at it, what are you going to do? Toss it overboard in a temper tantrum?" 

 

Sinbad raises an eyebrow, honestly startled at the suggestion. “If it makes more sense your way, why wouldn’t I change? Isn’t that the point of a specialist, to do the things well that other people can’t? You don’t see me trying to lift my own boulders when I have Masrur, why should I do my own books if you’ll be better at it?”

 

"That's probably one of the smarter things I've ever heard out of your mouth," Ja'far mutters, and he shrugs, sliding his leg back down to cross his ankles. "Fine. Don't get too used to it, though. I think we all know how temporary this arrangement is."

 

Sinbad snatches the pipe out of his hand, dumping out the ash and refilling it before sticking the end in his mouth. “The best things in life never last long enough, do they?”

 

Ja'far snorts, flopping backwards. At least he managed a bit of a fix. "Ah, so like youth? You're not just getting old for a _pirate_ , you know." 

 

Sinbad’s face goes sour, and if a black cloud could have appeared over his head, it _would_ have. “I don’t know how Masrur doesn’t cut himself on your sharp tongue.”

 

The assassin smiles a little too-sweetly. "Easily. It's a bit too busy to be _sharp_." 

 

Sinbad snorts. “A good thing for you, too. If no one here were getting any use out of you, I’d have thrown you to the curb, Judal or no. At least someone’s better off with you on board.”

 

Ja'far chokes on a laugh at that. "I'd like to see you try. My, but you're sensitive when your age is brought into the conversation, _Captain_." 

 

Sinbad’s eyes narrow. “Are you this unpleasant for Kouen to deal with? He hadn’t mentioned wanting to strangle you.”

 

"That's because he saved that for behind closed doors." God help him, this is a little too easy.

 

Wine splatters when Sinbad chokes, fighting down the annoyance. Far from being annoyed at the jibes, he’s annoyed that this sort of behavior _appeals_ to him so much, when he should ( _does_ , he tells himself) want the wretch dead. “Making yourself indispensable again, like a proper Al-Sarmen whore?”

 

"You know," Ja'far mildly replies, picking up his own cup of wine, " _whore_ implies I'm indiscriminate when I am actually quite picky. But to answer your question, En oft found me very amusing. Perhaps your own wit just needs a bit of tailoring, hmm?" He leans forward, chin dropping down into one hand as his eyes lid. "And here I thought someone like you would find it _amusing_ as well." 

 

“ _Whore_ ,” Sinbad clarifies, “implies that you spread your legs for whoever pays you, in money or safety or whatever you like. I’ve yet to see that isn’t the case with you.” In answer, he blows his own cloud of smoke into Ja’far’s face.

 

Ja'far merely briefly shuts his eyes, inhaling slowly. "Well," he says, "considering I haven't spread my legs for _you_ , that puts a damper on your assessment, now doesn't it?" 

 

“Only if I called you a stupid whore. You’ve already got your hooks into one protector who’s guaranteed you all the safety you need, why bother with another when you’d be making your charge so unhappy?” Sinbad’s hand strokes over Judal’s hair fondly, listening to his little snores.

 

"That _might_ be true if I never frequented Kouen's bed prior to this, and considering he's Judal's 'favorite'…" Ja'far still has to roll his eyes a bit, a sideways glance cast to Masrur before he looks back. "I also don't quite recall any _hooks_ going anywhere, but I suppose if you're into that sort of thing--"

 

“Nor do I,” Masrur says with all the seriousness as if it isn’t a jest. In fact, Sinbad’s never been quite sure what Masrur’s sense of humor _is_ , or if he even has one. 

 

“So you share men with the child you babysit?” Sinbad asks, eyebrow raised. “Truly, I should apologize for insinuating you were wanton.”

 

"I believe all I said was that I had _discriminating_ _taste_. There's a reason for you, why I'm not in _your_ bed." Never mind that Sinbad probably would enjoy throwing him around, holding him down and--no, his mind is _not_ going there. God, he has to get Masrur to do a little bit more damage later. Ja'far downs the rest of his wine. 

 

“Arrogant whore too,” Sinbad observes with a smile that isn’t quite nice. “You think you could get into my bed if you wanted me?” He leans forward onto his elbows. “I’d rather have someone poxed.”

 

"You don't fare well with rejection, do you?" Ja'far replies without batting an eye. "What happened to me being 'erotic' earlier? Or the fact you've been _apparently_ eyeballing my legs from afar." 

 

Sinbad has to laugh this time, an ugly laugh, and he drains his glass again, realizing he’s sort of lost count. “For someone who talks of rejection, I’ve never asked you to my bed. But so you know--” His hand comes down hard on the table, and golden eyes are deadly serious when they meet Ja’far’s as he leans in close. “When I say I won’t bed you, I don’t mean because of your scars, or that you’ve slept with men I don’t like, or that you’re in the bed of someone I like, or that you look one way or the other. It’s for you, because I don’t like what you stand for, and I don’t like who you stand with, and if you weren’t with Al-Sarmen I wouldn’t care if you were the most ragged, filthy, torn-apart wretch in the world, I’d still have you begging me for more inside a minute.”

 

He's had a little too much wine, and probably smoked a bit too much to keep back the hard swallow and the slight clench in his jaw that follows. Ah, he doesn't want to be here anymore. The gold of those eyes are distracting, the rumble of Sinbad's voice even worse, and his mind flickers abruptly back to how much larger the pirate's hands are than his own. "… It's a very good thing, then," Ja'far slowly, levelly manages, "that I don't ever _beg_."

 

Sinbad meets his gaze (odd, odd-colored eyes) for a few more long minutes before drawing back. “A good thing indeed,” he murmurs, “that you’re staying out of my bed, if you want that to keep being true.” 

 

He strokes a hand through Judal’s hair, urging him awake. “The game’s wrapping up. I’ve got us all rooms upstairs.”

 

Judal grumbles in his sleep, stirring with a stretch that's all-too catlike as he sprawls himself over Sinbad's lap. "Don't wanna move," he mumbles. "Worm pirates don't have to walk."

 

"Fantastic," Ja'far mutters, accepting a last refill on his wine before downing it back in a few, easy gulps. What he'd do to be _drunk_ right about now--or better yet, thrown overboard and drowned at sea. 

 

Sinbad lifts the boy easily in his arms, feeling the wine surge easily within him as he stands, cuddling Judal close to his chest. “If I don’t see you until then, castoff is at the dawn after next. Do whatever you need to do, just be here by then.” 

 

With that, he carries Judal up the stairs, shutting a door behind them.

 

“You do,” Masrur says quietly. “Beg. Not often.”

 

Ja'far sends an elbow irritably back into Masrur's side--regretting it, of course, with a scowl at the little shock that goes up his arm at hitting what is practically a bloody brick wall. "Don't let _him_ hear that. Your captain is insufferable." 

 

“Ah. I wasn’t sure if you knew.”

 

"I _do_ generally know what comes out of my mouth, even in bed," Ja'far mutters, and he sighs, shoving back from the table to climb to his feet. "This is as sociable as I get."

 

Masrur surveys the little man. He’s slumping the way Sin does after quite a lot of wine, but he isn’t laughing as much. “Do you want me to carry you back to the bed?”

 

"No. I can--" A step, and his world spins a bit, a reminder of _how long has it been since you let yourself get drunk, you dumbass_ before Ja'far just sinks right back down into his chair, lest he topple over. "Yes." 

 

Masrur lifts the man as easily as he might lift a baby, cradling him in the crook of one arm as he ascends the stairs. “Don’t worry about it. Most of the crew like me to carry them back when they get drunk.”

 

"I don't usually drink," Ja'far mutters, letting his head loll over Masrur's arm. "In fact, I haven't been _drunk_ since… since I was your age. God, why are you so _young_." 

 

Masrur isn’t quite sure how to respond to that. “I’m older than I’ve ever been.”

 

Ja'far groans at that. "You could have told me." He wonders if that would have changed anything. Probably not. "Ugh, just--I'm just not going to think about it." 

 

Masrur thinks about that one for a minute. “Is it a problem? I was a slave until I was eleven, you’re not ruining my childhood.”

 

"It's not a _problem_ per say, it's just--odd. My _charge_ is only two years younger than you," Ja'far mutters, and his face turns, butting against Masrur's shoulder. "And yet you act a world more mature. A relief, that." 

 

“Coming from the man everyone thought was centuries old.”

 

"That's an Al-Sarmen thing, are you really surprised? Put me to bed already." God, a _real_ bed--one that doesn't slide on the floor of a ship-- _plus_ the wonderful realization that he won't be seasick for a good portion of the night and into the next day.

 

Masrur uses the key Sin had given him earlier, unlocking the smallest of the rooms with one double-bed. He lays Ja’far down on it, locking the door behind them in case anyone downstairs decides to get boisterous. “I can sleep on the floor if you’re warm enough.”

 

Ja'far rolls his eyes, lurching up from the mattress to grab for Masrur's arm and tug. "You make a good pillow," he says, thankful he still has that excuse in his arsenal as he sways and flops back down. "Figured out how I can sleep around you. You don't move when you sleep. Kind of strange, but good." 

 

Masrur tests the bed for a moment, but it seems sturdy enough for his weight. He stretches out, feet hanging off the bed as usual, and lets Ja’far arrange him. “The slave quarters in the gladiator pits,” he explains. “We got five feet by two feet to lay down, seven by three for the big warriors. They had a man who’d come around at night and check. He’d run his sword down the lines.”

 

"Well, that'll train you, I suppose," Ja'far murmurs as he shifts, coiling himself into a ball against Masrur's chest. "I'm surprised that they allowed a Fanalis to be a slave, in Laem. Or perhaps it's just a recent thing, that their Magi has taken a liking to your race…" 

 

“From what I saw of Laem, they let everyone be a slave.”

 

"Only good thing about that country is its leaves." That makes him think, annoyingly enough, of the look on Sinbad's face when smoke was blown into it, and the return of the favor that made _him_ shiver. Ja'far's head pounds and he shoves his face into Masrur's neck. "When I'm done being drunk, I'm going to eat you alive."

 

A hint of a smile creases Masrur’s face. “I….good.”

 

If he's been sleeping the sleep of the dead for the past few days, _this_ is a dozen times better. 

 

No rocking, swaying ship, no annoying sound of birds cawing first thing in the morning--just a warm, solid bed… that actually happens to be mostly Masrur, with how Ja'far finds himself when he wakes, practically draped over the man. The only downside to anything is the headache pounding behind his temples, a warning that if he does too much, too fast, he might end up as sick as he's been for the past few weeks all over again.

 

Taking it easy. Right. He can manage that much.

 

A slow, languid slide, and Ja'far ducks underneath the blanket, nuzzling, nudging his way down the hard, flat plane of Masrur's stomach, tongue absently dipping into his navel as his fingers slide between the man's legs. Maybe it isn't eating him alive like he'd said the night prior, but it's a start. 

 

Masrur wakes, because no dream he’s ever had feels this _good_.

 

His skin tingles all over, even if his arms feel oddly, suddenly _empty_ , and a peek down at the moving shape under the blanket shows him why. A little smile plays on his lips--this is _quite_ a way to wake up, unlike any he’s ever had--and he folds up the top edge of the blanket, looking down at Ja’far. “What are you doing down there?”

 

"Waking you up," is the sigh to follow, and Ja'far wriggles down a bit more, cheek nuzzling between the other man's legs, his lips parting to mouth over the hardening line of Masrur's cock through fabric. It's a rare day he _enjoys_ having his face between another's legs, but with Masrur, it's less a chore. If he reasons with it long enough, he can add it to a pile of things to repay, but that requires too much thought and he's already attempting to _not_ think.

 

Masrur opens his mouth to tell Ja’far that he’s awake now for sure, there’s no need--but to be honest, he doesn’t _want_ Ja’far to stop doing what he’s doing. It feels _good_ , if unusual, but everything with Ja’far feels that way, pretty much. He rests a hand on the smaller man’s head, groaning slightly at the wet heat of his mouth, letting silken strands slip between his fingers. “That’s….nice, really nice….”

 

Just the weight of Masrur's hand there makes Ja'far shiver, even if his hair isn't being pulled or his face pushed down. His fingers are eager, then, to pull and paw at fabric, peeling it down so that his mouth can actually drag against that hardening flesh, his tongue a slick, hot slide against the underside of Masrur's cock. Even having had it inside of him, it seems even bigger beneath his lips, and Ja'far swallows back a groan, eyes fluttering when his mouth drags up to the head of it, a wet, sloppy drag of lips and tongue to follow while one hand's fingers curl around the shaft to squeeze. "Wish I could do this properly," he admits, eyes dark as he glances up, lips already sticky, a bit swollen. "I'd have you all the way down my throat, if I could."

 

Masrur’s cock throbs at those words, and god, he can’t even _imagine_ what that would be like, to be inside someone’s mouth, though if the touch of Ja’far’s mouth on the head of his cock is any indication, it would be good enough to make him pass out. “This--” he tries, gasping at the words, “this--it’s fine, it’s--”

 

It’s more than enough, far more than anyone else has ever tried to do for him, and he can’t quite help the way his fingers twist in Ja’far’s hair, still gentle. “Sorry it’s so…”

 

"Don't apologize." It's little more than a rumble in his throat, and Ja'far's fingers drag down, kneading, stroking where the slickness of his mouth has been, and even if it takes some effort and his lips and jaw ache from just _that_ much, he sucks the tip of Masrur's cock into his mouth, tongue dragging over the leaking, dripping slit of it before he releases it with a groan. "Pull," he lowly insists, reaching up to grab at Masrur's hand in encouragement, even as he nuzzles down, letting the man's cock drag over his cheek in a wet, sticky slide. "It's good… when you just use me." 

 

“I--”

 

Masrur _wants_ to, he wants to make Ja’far enjoy this as much as he does, but a request like that--

 

Damned if he even knows _how_.

 

To grab him hard and use him when they’re making love, that he understands, he knows where everything _goes_ , but this….this is too good and too confusing all at once, and his hands fist uselessly in Ja’far’s hair, pulling a little tighter. “I don’t--I don’t know how--there’s no way it’ll fit in your mouth….”

 

"Just--" Ja'far swallows hard, his eyes shutting against the pull on his hair, breath hitching. "Just rub up against my face, then." It shouldn't make him out of breath just to say that, nor should it make him so hard that he has to squirm. His head twists, and he mouths up the side of Masrur's cock. "You can come all over it--on my face, in my hair--"

 

That sounds _messy_ , and Masrur is stunned at just how hard his cock gets at those mental images. His hand tightens more, and to keep from pulling out that pretty hair he cups Ja’far’s head with his hands, engulfing it entirely and holding it pretty much in place as he ruts up, swallowing hard at the sight of his cock rubbing against Ja’far’s pale cheeks, his swollen red lips. He should probably _say_ something--don’t men talk, usually, when they’re bedding someone?--but no words come to his lips.

 

He has to wonder how long Ja’far was teasing him before he woke up, because he’s _far_ too close now, and with a ragged sigh, he spills across Ja’far’s cheeks and lips, taking deep, shuddering breaths.

 

Ja'far swallows hard, eyes dark as his tongue flicks out on its own accord, licking at his lips and leaving him shivering afterwards. He lifts a hand in kind, dragging it over his face to wipe it clean, and sucks a finger into his mouth as he drops his head languidly to Masrur's hip. "Good?" he murmurs, peering up through the mussed fall of his bangs.

 

Masrur nods, not trusting his voice to convey the actual power of the feelings washing through him, making him twitch and tremble. His hands fall to his sides as his chest heaves, more out of breath from this than from running for twenty-four hours straight. “Th….thank you,” he finally says, almost shyly.

 

"… How _don't_ you have a woman?" Ja'far can't help but wryly chuckle, sliding up with a ragged, unsteady little sigh as he butts his head underneath Masrur's chin. 

 

Masrur wraps an arm around the smaller man, pulling him close as he can get, fingers splaying out. “Women are afraid of me. Some women.”

 

Ja'far's eyebrows slowly raise, and he stretches himself out, content to laze about until his headache fades away just a bit more. "Mmn. I suppose they would be a bit intimidated. Both men and women are often bothered by someone that has little to say." 

 

“Mmm.”

 

"You're young, a woman will fall into your lap soon enough." Ja'far's eyes slowly lid. "We can go back to sleep, if you want, unless you think your captain will bother us anytime soon." 

 

“He won’t. He lets us have our shore leave, the crew goes crazy without it.” Masrur tightens his arm, just a tiny bit. “We can stay here as long as you want.”

 

"Until my hangover calms down," Ja'far tiredly agrees, and his eyes shut as his face presses firmly into the crook of Masrur's neck. Warm and comfortable pillows do wonders for that sort of thing, if nothing else.

 

~~

 

It's astounding that Sinbad gets _anything_ done.

 

Ja'far remembers helping Koumei and Hakuren paw through the old library records when he was younger, 15 and freshly loaned to the Kou Empire with Judal barely tall enough to grab onto the obi at his waist. While it had been something of a mess, nothing compares to this and Sinbad's utterly nonexistent system of bookkeeping. Then again, no one within Al-Sarmen thinks about gold, either, and there's a joke that only he and Banker have the head for it (though Ja'far has never understood why it's a joke and laughed about when it's _true_ ).

 

It's soothing, in a way, and Ja'far can't help but be grateful for a chance to get out of the sun, even if it's for a day. He has no doubts that all the sunburn is starting to go to his head--to the point he's misplaced a dagger (fortunately, not one of any sort of sentimental value) and that _irritates him_ , wondering where it got to. Likely, some little thief's hands at this point, traded away for the inlay of platinum within its blade. Good for them, he supposes.

 

It takes him from dawn, nearly to dusk, and Ja'far sighs as he finally, gratefully sits back, stretching his arms over his head and cracking out the tense, twisted vertebrae of his neck. Another debt repaid, as far as he's concerned. At least Sinbad's spending will make some sense while he's on this damned ship. 

 

“You didn’t sleep at all, did you?” 

 

More than that, Ja’far hadn’t even noticed Sinbad in the doorway, a seemingly odd lapse of concentration for someone so usually diligent. Then again, with his nose buried in the books as much as it has been, Sinbad doubts he’s been able to notice much of anything at all.

 

Ja'far lowers his arms, trying to make the motion look natural and not the automatic twitch towards a weapon courtesy of being surprised. "How long have you been leering there?" he mutters, and he leans forward onto his elbows, resting a chin into his hand. "Once I start something, I see it through to the end. Little did I know of how big your mess in here was."

 

Sinbad doesn’t mention the five or six times he’d come in through the day, watching the stack of books and scrolls pile steadily higher. “What was so wrong about them? I _do_ keep records. Something comes in, I write it down. Something goes out, I write it down.”

 

"Oh, yes, you certainly write everything down--messily, out of order, and in random places. Your handwriting is horrible, by the way," Ja'far tells him, and promptly reaches over to grab a leather-bound book and push it to the corner of the table. "I took the liberty of rewriting all of your records for the past three years. What I could read, at any rate. Your originals have been properly filed, for once, but this should serve as a better reference." 

 

Sinbad’s eyebrows climb as his eyes widen. “You did all of that in one day?” he asks, incredulous as he picks up the book, leafing through tiny handwriting so precise it could have belonged to a scribe.

 

"Yes." Probably, he should have dragged it out. Another day out of the sun would have been nice. 

 

Sinbad’s finger runs gently over a page, and damn, he has to admit, this is sort of nice. “You’re really good at this kind of thing. Do you like writing?”

 

A little shrug follows. "I've always been good at it. There's always a method to numbers and filing and the like, too; I guess you could call it a balm to the nerves." 

 

“Well,” Sinbad says, brow furrowed as he thinks, “I haven’t got any more accounting that needs to be done right now, but if you’re willing, I have lots of old books that are falling apart, I’ve been meaning to get a scribe to copy them down into new volumes. You could always go back up into the rigging, but consider the offer an alternative.”

 

"If you're offering, then all right." Ja'far _probably_ agrees too quickly, but the last thing he wants is to keep burning in the sun. Only a few days of it, and he's already out of aloe. "Anything is better than cooking myself, honestly." 

 

“Excellent!” Ah, it’s a little too exciting, the idea that he’ll be able to read his favorite novels without worrying that they’ll fall apart with the next turn of the page. “Wait right here, I’ll go get them!”

 

Ja'far is somewhat reminded of a child, what with how Sinbad practically beams and bounces, but that, too, he'll take to the man being a complete ass. A sigh, and Ja'far twists around, tugging an empty journal from one neat stack. 

 

Less than five minutes later, Sinbad staggers back in with a stack of books taller than he is, somehow maneuvering it through the door to set them heavily down next to Ja’far. “No rush!” he says cheerfully, resting an elbow on one stack. “The sea air tends to degrade the paper, I knew they’d have to be recopied at some point, but none of my men are so good with a pen.”

 

"… I'll admit, I didn't quite peg you as such an avid reader," Ja'far manages, blinking openly at the stack. He lifts one book, wiping the dust off of the cover. Well, this will all certainly keep him from the sun for awhile. "I hope you have extra ink lying around." 

 

“I have plenty of ink,” Sinbad promises, reaching up to the top shelf and grabbing an old bread box, setting it next to Ja’far. It rattles slightly, a dozen or more ink bottles clinking together. “No one saw the point of it all until a few years ago when we got stuck in dead calm for three weeks. Running out of water was nothing compared to running out of things to do. Suddenly everyone was pawing all over them.”

 

"Ah, good. Just sit it over there, then, and I'll get started," Ja'far says with a wave of his hand to the edge of the table. "It's a rare thing that you actually find someone that gives a damn about the written word… it was pulling teeth to teach Judal how to read anything outside of magical texts," he crossly replies, carefully opening one book and wincing at the state of the pages before setting it aside. "Well, whatever. This will keep me occupied for a bit, and so long as I'm not adding another five dozen freckles to my collection, I have no complaints."

 

Sinbad laughs, an easier thing than he’d thought he’d ever give the pissy little assassin. “With my men I mainly have to pick out the ones about sea monsters and great heroes. They always want me to read them aloud with voices and everything too.” He arches a brow. “I don’t know why you wouldn’t want more freckles, they’re probably the most charming thing about you.”

 

Ja'far rolls his eyes at that, and carefully opens up another book, smoothing its pages flat before dipping his quill into his already open ink pot. He might as well finish this one off before retiring for the evening, at any rate. The ink is never quite as good if it's capped and left for later. "Feeling complimentary, are we? Fitting, considering the price of freckles is a burn that peels off a few days later. I feel like a shedding snake."

 

“You look like one, too,” Sinbad agrees cheerfully. “And act like one, the way you cuddle up to the nearest warm thing.”

 

"… Is that supposed to be your attempt at a compliment, too? Oh, that reminds me." Ja'far reaches into his pocket even as he writes, holding up the tiny, lithe form of what any sailor should recognize as a particularly deadly green pit viper. "You should have your stores checked more thoroughly in the future. You have other stowaways pretending to be limes."

 

Sinbad swallows hard. He’s lost men to snakes like that, especially on dark nights when they’d reached blindly into a crate. “Noted. Give that to me, I’ll use it as bait.”

 

Ja'far lifts his eyes, frowning as he pulls his hand back and drops the snake back into his pocket, where it seems to settle docilely. "No. What a waste, surely you have an idea of how much venom these things have."

 

“I know exactly how much venom they have,” Sinbad retorts, “which is why it isn’t staying on my ship. Don’t you have enough poison in your own mouth?”

 

"A pity I don't have the proper set of fangs. At least let me milk it first, then you can dispose of it if you feel that's still necessary." 

 

Sinbad leans forward, fascinated against his better judgment. “Milk it? How on earth do you do that? I’d like to watch.”

 

Again, he's reminded of a child, and it's even more amusing the second time. Ja'far's lips quirk slightly, and he sets down his quill to pull the snake back out, the thing now hissing a bit at being disturbed a second time. "Hold out your arm." 

 

Sinbad’s chair backs up until it hits the wall. “I’d rather not.”

 

Ja'far blinks, head tilting. "It was a joke. Really, get me a bottle, I'll show you." 

 

“It looks angry.” Sinbad eyes the snake warily, somewhat impressed against his own will at the ease with which the younger man handles the snake. He pulls out a bottle from his pocket, drains the last of the rum, and tosses it over.

 

"Well, wouldn't you be, if you were woken up twice in a row and threatened to be turned into fish bait?" Ja'far sniffs, catching the bottle and firmly grasping the back of the snake's head, opening its jaws with a press of a finger. Hooking the creature's fangs over the side of the bottle and applying pressure is all it takes before a thin, slow trickle of venom drips down. "It's easy enough to make antidotes out of things like this, too--or better yet, expose yourself gradually to it over time, then if you do get bitten, it doesn't matter." 

 

“Really?” Sinbad leans forward to watch, fascinated against his own will. “I’d never heard that. I thought if you got bitten by a snake, that was it, there was nothing left but to suck out the poison, and usually that doesn’t work.”

 

"In the time you're sitting there trying to suck it out, it's already halfway up your arm or leg. Far smarter is to just make yourself accustomed to poison in the first place." Another, little tap on the back of the snake's head, and Ja'far draws it back away from the bottle, letting its mouth shut. "It's easier if you start when you're young, of course… but with adults, if you start in small doses, it isn't so traumatic." 

 

“So what are you immune to?” Sinbad can’t help but ask. “Every poison known to man? You know so much about this stuff. Was it your choice, or did they want an unbreakable assassin?”

 

"… Most things don't faze me." Does Sinbad really think he's going to give him every little detail? Ja'far corks the bottle, setting it to the side before pocketing the rather ruffled snake again. "It just seems I'm naturally talented at my work, or so I've been told."

 

That sounds like the end of a conversation, so Sinbad stands, giving Ja’far a little bow. “I’ll leave you to your poisons and my books, then. Don’t mix them.”

 

"That's actually a good way to become immune, you know--a bit of poison on parchment, it absorbs a bit through the pads of your fingers, and if you lift your hand to lick them…" Ja'far drawls, setting his chin in his hands.

 

“I’m...going to leave before I can become afraid of my own books.” 

 

Sinbad leaves, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like “Good _luck_ , Masrur…”

 

~~

 

Really, Sinbad doesn’t _mean_ to pry. 

 

It’s just that it’s less than a week until Masrur’s birthday, and damn it, it would be nice if the kid got something from someone other than the crew for once. Not that most of them do, but Sinbad’s got a soft spot a mile long for Masrur, and it’s hard not to see how much happier he’s been in the month since Ja’far became unofficially part of the crew. 

 

He’ll put into port in a few days, sure, but none of that will mean anything if the assassin doesn’t have any coin to _buy_ a gift, and he sort of doubts he’d take it from Sinbad’s hand anyway, so sneaking it into his bag seems like the best possible solution. 

 

He hadn’t _expected_ to open the bag and get hit with a cloud of something herbal and strange, or to feel his head hit the deck a second before his eyes slide shut.

 

Still shaking the cramps from his hand and picking out bits of dried ink from underneath his fingernails, Ja'far hardly expects the sight of Sinbad, sprawled out and unconscious on the floor, when he opens the door.

 

Another, quick glance about makes him less wary and more _annoyed_ , realizing exactly what is open and near Sinbad's face, and the assassin growls in the back of his throat, flicking one of his blades back into the wires on his arms before stalking over, snatching his bag up, and all but dropping a bag of smelling salts directly onto the pirate's face. "Wake up." 

 

A sudden assault on his sinuses rips unconsciousness from Sinbad’s mind, leaving him awake, gasping, and with a throat made of fire. “Wh--” he chokes. “What _was_ that?”

 

"Something expensive and rare, and if you messed up anything in here, I'll be very upset," Ja'far mutters, flopping down onto his cot to rummage through and make _sure_. 

 

“I didn’t mess anything up, I was just looking for money!”

 

Ja'far lifts his eyes then, a mix of confusion and sheer exasperation washing over his face. " _Why?_ "

 

Sinbad pulls a few coins out of his pocket, handing them over resentfully. “I wanted to make sure you had something to buy Masrur a gift. His birthday is coming up.”

 

The confusion only increases. "… Why would I do that?" 

 

Sinbad stares at him. “Because you’re sleeping with him. That’s what people _do_.”

 

"I've never bought a gift for anyone I've slept with before." 

 

The stare turns into a glare. “Fine. I’ll buy him something and you can say it’s from you.”

 

The confusion turns abruptly to irritation. "Why are you acting like I've said something offensive? I don't think Masrur would care either way."

 

“Masrur,” Sinbad says tightly, “has never been in a relationship before. You are not going to condition him to think he doesn’t matter.”

 

Ja'far _hates_ people. He hates interacting with them, and he hates things like this, which always seem just out of his reach. "I never said," he curtly replies, "that he didn't _matter_. But I also never said we were in a _relationship_. I find his company tolerable on occasion. That is the extent of it." He snorts, yanking the strings of his bag tight again before tucking it away. "If you want me to give him a gift, then I'm sure my mouth will suffice." 

 

“Does he know?” Sinbad asks, voice quiet and no less intense for it. “He’s young, you know. Does he know you two are nothing more than bedpartners?”

 

"I know he's young. I--" Ja'far's mouth twists, and he finally gives into the urge to sigh, looking away. "I've said as much. I have told him not to get attached. He knows. I don't exactly think he'd be upset, should I run off and bed another. I have no intention of _devaluing_ him, but I…" Why he feels the need to explain this at all is beyond him, and the thought that he actually _can_ is also hilarious. Ja'far's shoulders sag. There's no way to say it, not without sounding pathetic. "He enjoys my company, but that's the extent of it, and that's all it needs to be. I'm hardly capable of being a proper lover, and I prefer it that way." 

 

Sinbad remembers the child Masrur had been, with a warrior’s eyes even then, barely coming up to his shoulder and wielding a sword as tall as he was. “He thinks himself...indestructible,” he says, folding his arms over his chest. “Or he wants other people to think of him that way. You’d do well not to make that mistake.”

 

Ja'far spreads his hands helplessly. "What would you have me do? I've been nothing but honest with him. He'd be much better off finding a good woman. I'm not that, nor will I ever be." 

 

Sinbad waves a hand. “I’m not asking you to love the boy. Use each other for sex and warmth all you want, but don’t pretend sharing a bed every night for a month means nothing.” He pauses, then snorts. “Or maybe it does to you. But I doubt it does to him.”

 

"You only listen to every other word out of my mouth, don't you?" Ja'far snappishly retorts. "I just told you I have no intention of _devaluing_ him. He saved my life. I've been doing all I can to repay that debt and then some." 

 

Sinbad stands, still a little shaky from all that poison. “Good. Keep it that way.” He pauses, then adds, “And I really doubt you can use your mouth on him, unless you can dislocate your jaw like those snakes you love.”

 

A snort follows that. "Not that it's any of your business, but I hardly need him _in_ my mouth to let him enjoy it all the same." 

 

“I--” Sinbad closes his mouth, a bit too interested in those mental images. “Ah. Well. Hmm.”

 

In spite of himself, Ja'far _does_ love when he can throw Sinbad just the slightest bit off kilter. It takes effort, which makes it doubly pleasing when it happens. "Odd, that you've yet to realize how _creative_ I am." 

 

Sinbad starts to leer, the phrase _a pity you’re wasting that creativity on a boy who can’t appreciate your talent_ on the tip of his tongue, but he stops. Not about Masrur. “Difficult to realize when he keeps you locked away down here. Come live in a hammock with the rest of the crew and let us all see just how creative you are.”

 

Ja'far's expression is decidedly bland. "Is that supposed to be enticing? No one else in your crew interests me in the slightest, and I can assure you, you would enjoy my company even _less_ if I were forced to live in close quarters. I wouldn't catch a moment of sleep." A pause, and Ja'far reevaluates the phrasing of that. "I mean that without innuendo. I literally can't sleep around other people." 

 

“Except Masrur. But then, maybe you two don’t do much sleeping.”

 

"… He doesn't move in his sleep," Ja'far points out.

 

“Doesn’t he? I never noticed.” Sinbad shrugs, making his way to the door. “Judal’s a wriggly little worm, isn’t he?”

 

"How many times has he kicked you out of your own bed, pray tell?" Ah, he shouldn't have any sort of inclination to make Sinbad _linger_ , but he's so _bored_. He never thought he'd miss any sort of conversation, always finding silence a welcome thing at the end of the day, but god, what he'd give to talk politics or any sort of matters of the empire or-- _anything_. Ja'far sucks in a slow breath. "I've almost finished copying all of those books you gave me, by the way. Is there anything else you'd have me do?"

 

“He doesn’t kick me out so much as bloody my lip,” Sinbad admits with something like a grin. It’s nice to have conversation with an _adult_ for once. “And as it so happens, do you know anything about stock and requisitions? You could do the books for the burser and the galley as well, if you’re not missing the sun too much. Did you know we always take on twice as much stock south of Balbadd as we do in the north?”

 

"Considering how barren the north is these days, I'm far from surprised." _That, and the Kou Empire owns nearly everything in that direction, and you'll find that they own Balbadd in another year or three._ "I can take a look at them now, if you want." Ja'far hesitates, then adds, "And you might want a glass of wine. It will take the edge off of that poison, otherwise it'll linger and you'll never sleep tonight."

 

“To be honest, I’d have had a glass of wine anyway, given how dazed I feel. But thank you, it’s always good to have a reason.” Sinbad starts to leave, then hesitates. “I don’t suppose you play draughts?”

 

"Do you like losing?" 

 

A huge grin splits Sinbad’s face. “Love it.”

 

It's better than lying awake for hours sharpening knives, for sure. "Then," Ja'far says, pushing himself back up to his feet, "you might actually find me to be pleasant company for once." 

 

Hours later, the Captain’s cabin is well lit, a draughts board set up, and Sinbad pours two glasses of wine, having located a significantly esoteric magical tome for Judal to happily curl up with. He tries to tell himself he’s doing it to get more information on Al-Sarmen, but ah, he’d be lying. Obnoxious or no, Ja’far is at least _intelligent_.

 

"What sort of connections do you _have_ in Balbadd?" Ja'far incredulously asks, flipping through old ledgers. He's half-buried in them, really, his knees neatly folded underneath himself on a pillow, and he balances his wine glass a bit precariously in one hand. "The pricing you're privy to is the lowest I've ever seen. What tax official do you have in your pocket?"

 

“Tax official’s wife,” Sinbad says instead with a grin. “And it isn’t my _pocket_ she’s in. Come on, I’ll let you draw white, you can have the first move.”

 

"Should have known," the assassin snorts, though really, is he one to talk? He takes a sip of wine before setting it aside and reaches out to move his first piece. "Well, enjoy it while you can. Balbadd will be the Kou Empire's next acquisition, which I'm sure you've heard of by now." 

 

“I have. Kou is waiting for the death of the king, I think?” Sinbad stares down at the board--such an interesting opening move, he _wishes_ it told him more--and moves a piece. “They might find the young Prince harder to conquer than they think. The people love him.”

 

Ja'far has to bite his tongue, reminding himself that this man is still very much his enemy, and not one to discuss every inner working with (namely, how Banker has been making arrangements for _years_ that will soon come to fruition). God, he feels cut off. He scarcely looks at the board before moving again. "Mm. Well, if he succeeds in holding off Kou, that will certainly be interesting." 

 

“Ah, I never said he could hold them _off_ ,” Sinbad admits, side-eyeing the board before moving. “Just that they may pay more dearly for it than they’re prepared to. Conquering a people who like the way things are is much more difficult than conquering an unhappy nation.”

 

"Very true. The Kou Empire is very strong, though… the emperor at current also has no issues throwing away lives in order to conquer whatever nation he pleases, and Kou's soldiers are all too-willing, besides. It matters not, really," Ja'far murmurs, eyes lidding as he considers for the briefest of moments before making his next move. "I try to keep away from involving myself in wars." 

 

“Wise choice. I made a similar one about, oh, five years ago?” Sinbad moves a piece into place, jumping neatly. “Before that, we’d sometimes work as mercenaries when we found a cause we believed in. Not anymore.”

 

Ja'far's lips quirk up at that. "You? A mercenary?" Unfazed, Ja'far simply pushes another piece forward. "You're too loud." 

 

“You have an odd opinion of mercenaries. Most of the ones I’ve met are loud. Big men, scarred, drunk, loud, do anything for a bit of coin. Those are the ones that survive.” Sinbad takes another drink. “I didn’t want my men to become like that.”

 

"The mercenaries up north aren't like that. Nor are the assassins." Ja'far's head tilts. "The mercenaries _you_ are referring to I prefer to call 'idiots.'"

 

Sinbad starts to argue, then sighs, pushing forward another piece. “They were men hired to fight a losing battle. Not many come to a summons like that.”

 

"I don't understand why most would, to be honest." In short order, Ja'far jumps three of Sinbad's pieces, collecting them off of the board. "Then again, I don't understand the motives of most people. They're usually ridiculous."

 

Sinbad purses his lips, moving another piece forward. “We call an action ridiculous when it doesn’t follow logic we understand. Isn’t that just arrogance? What do we know of the motives of others?”

 

"… Or perhaps it's just _illogical?_ " Ja'far dryly shoots back, reaching for his wine glass while nudging a piece of his own across the board. "Arrogance gets you killed. I'd rather not die yet."

 

“Sex is illogical too,” Sinbad points out, “by that logic. Unless you’re trying to have children. All you seek is ephemeral pleasure, right? There’s no logical reason for that. But we have desires for it anyway, and for wine when water would do.”

 

"I never said I didn't have illogical _tendencies._ Just that, by my understanding, most of the things people do are far worse. You, for example," he points out, more amused than unkind. "You float around the world on a ship that could sink at any moment. What do you even gain through all of this?" 

 

“Freedom.” Sinbad jumps three pieces, landing at the opposite side of the board. “Do  you mean to imply that everyone who sails is illogical, or just those who have the choice not to?”

 

"I mean _you_ are." Ja'far jumps a piece in return, expression nonplussed. "You have a dozen nicknames within the Kou Empire, you know--among them, 'child collector.' What sort of freedom do you have rescuing poor, foreign princes or gladiator slaves and then having them under your care?" 

 

Sinbad’s eyebrows climb. He hasn’t heard that particular nickname before, though he supposes it could be _further_ from the truth… “I’m not rescuing them,” he says finally, turning a piece around and jumping backwards. “I’m giving them the chance to rescue themselves. I only collect, as you say, the people who impress me and have some sense of adventure.”

 

"So the like-minded, then." That makes at least a little bit more sense. Ja'far jumps to the other side of Sinbad's board with another double jump, and heaves a sigh. "If you had a country, it would sound as if you're building a cabinet. Instead, you merely have a ship filled with strange people." 

 

Sinbad laughs. “I can’t say you’re wrong. But we enjoy each others’ company, and anyone is free to leave whenever they like.” He turns a second piece into a double, skipping twice. “You and Judal both talk about me owning a country. Do I seem so much like the kings you know?”

 

Ja'far tries not to pale at the idea of Judal talking of kings with Sinbad yet _again_. "Hardly," he mutters, and he channels his irritation by gulping down another long sip of wine. "It's merely habit. As I said, Al-Sarmen expected it of you ages ago." _In fact, they counted on it._

 

“Did they?” Sinbad finds that more amusing than he should, probably. “They think it’s so easy to come by a kingdom?” He shakes his hair out, contemplating another move. “I just don’t know about being tied down to one place forever. My feet start to itch.”

 

"It was more the fact of Yunan's interest in you." Ja'far leans back onto one hand, trying not to think on how it would be nice to be _smoking_ right about now. He doubts they're on familiar enough terms to ask just yet. "Not every man is handed a dungeon by a Magi."

 

“He didn’t exactly _hand_ it to me, no matter what you might have heard.” Sinbad takes a long sip, moving a piece across the board, jumping twice. “He just told me it was a better way to die than fighting an unknown king’s war when I was fourteen. He didn’t help me or guide me.”

 

"… That's as close to _handing_ as any Magi has ever done," Ja'far wryly points out, and with a sigh, he hovers a hand over the board, thoughtful for a second before returning the favor. "We're both about to commit suicide here." 

 

“Burning the ship with both of us on it,” Sinbad agrees, and holds out his hand. “Draw?”

 

Ja'far nods, reaching out to take Sinbad's hand and shake. "...I'll play you again, if you share your pipe for longer than five minutes." 

 

Sinbad hesitates, then grins. “Set it up. I can do better than that.” He stands, rummaging through the drawers of an old creaking dresser, pulling out a filagree silver-detailed pipe, then uses a small brass key to unlock another drawer, retrieving a tiny pouch. “The stuff from Laem,” he says, eyes twinkling. “You can have your own, silver doesn’t look right with my complexion.”

 

"That's really--" _Unnecessary, on about a dozen levels._ Ja'far hesitates, frowning a little, and he turns his attention abruptly back to the board, setting the pieces back up. "… Thank you." He isn't ungrateful. He _isn't_. It's just--how does one, exactly, deal with being given any sort of thing? "Though I thought Sharrkan said you only shared that with _certain_ visitors to your cabin." 

 

“Sharrkan,” Sinbad says easily, “managed to lose the first twenty games of draughts in a row. He’s a good kid, but….hmm. I don’t exactly want to encourage his presence here.”

 

"I'm amazed he can feed himself." Ja'far sighs, pushing himself up a bit straighter. "Then again, I've yet to win one. Should I still feel honored at this privilege, Captain? Or is there a catch beyond continuing to play games with you all night?" 

 

“I,” Sinbad says, “am enjoying myself. You need look no further for an explanation. Please, smoke.” He ignores the slight to Sharrkan. The boy always proves himself, eventually. He’s that sort.

 

It's probably bad that Ja'far almost _wishes_ there were a catch.

 

He sinks back nonetheless, taking the pipe and these are actually a bit _better_ than the last leaves Koumei had given him, which is saying something. Exhaling the fragrant smoke, Ja'far thinks he probably doesn't want to know who Sinbad is friends with in Laem if the man can obtain things like _this._

 

“Good, isn’t it?” Sinbad asks, leaning back in his own chair and lighting his pipe. It’s better like this, he tells himself, not having to lean forward to feel the slow exhale of Ja’far’s breath. “Don’t smoke too fast, or my next victory won’t be a legitimate one.”

 

"'Next' implies that you won before," Ja'far sighs, and he shifts, giving up on not being _comfortable_ when he's warm, smoking, and the ship's rocking isn't so terribly noticeable in here. He flops onto his stomach in short order, pipe in hand and chin in the other, only removing itself to offer Sinbad a dismissive wave. "Your move first, this time." 

 

Sinbad catches himself just in time, after only a second’s worth of staring at the curve of Ja’far’s ass--Kou robes do him no favors, Sinbad thinks, and wonders idly what it would take to get him in proper clothing. He makes his first move, but can’t quite suppress his tongue. “You should trade that stuff in for trousers. Even if you are doing books, it’s got to be easier for scrambling up and down that ladder to your bed. I’ve got something in your size, I’m sure.”

 

Ja'far blinks at that. "So disgusted by a glimpse of my legs, are you?" he wryly asks, and he exhales smoke slowly as he reaches over to nudge his own piece. "Believe it or not, this clothing adds a great deal of mobility. I've completed missions in far worse, too, so your ladders are nothing." 

 

“It was just an offer. Though I’m a bit confused--why would I be disgusted by your legs?” Sinbad takes his strategy a bit more seriously this time, sliding a piece forward. “From what I saw--well. Disgusted isn’t the right word.”

 

The assassin pauses for a moment to think, looking at the board. "The scars, of course." He moves his piece, and draws back to slowly nurse his pipe. "If 'disgusted' isn't the word, what is?" 

 

Sinbad raises an eyebrow. “You think those scars made me _less_ interested? Is a mountain less interesting with a river running through it?”

 

"… Well, if the river doesn't serve a purpose other than to make things more troublesome--"

 

Sinbad frowns, pushing a piece forward, and leans forward onto his elbows. “Not a man in the world is as unblemished as we were when we were born. That doesn’t make us any less valuable. If anything, it just makes us more real.”

 

"They're a mark of a failed mission and my own disobedience." Ja'far's brow furrows, his head tilting into the palm of his hand. "So yes, they make me less valuable."

 

“Not to everyone.” This isn’t just a losing battle, it’s a stupid one to get into, and Sinbad shoves it aside. “Say I did have a country, instead of a ship,” he suggests instead. “Would you come work there?”

 

Ja'far stares at him, thrown off so much by the question that he almost forgets it's his move. "But you hate me," is his 'answer', and he reaches over, skipping one of Sinbad's pieces. 

 

“Do I?” Sinbad recovers, a third piece sneaking up. “Would you not work for someone you hated?”

 

"Why are you asking any of this?" Ja'far mutters, sliding another piece across the board in quick succession. "I have an employer. You hate me. You certainly don't have a country."

 

“Because you don’t have an employer. At least, not one you take orders from in exchange for money.” Sinbad moves, then leans back, blowing smoke rings. “Unless I’ve missed something.”

 

"… Am I missing a joke, or are you seriously offering to buy me out from under Al-Sarmen?" It's a ludicrous idea at best, and Ja'far snorts, eyes lidded as he jumps a pair of Sinbad's pieces, far more inclined to be aggressive this time. "Anyone can file and write. That's not what I was even trained to do."

 

“You’re good at it,” Sinbad points out. “It’s a way of earning your keep that doesn’t involve sunburn, and most importantly, you’ve been doing it for the last month. Not to mention the fact that you don’t seem particularly invested in going back to Al-Sarmen. Unless _I’ve_ missed a joke.”

 

Ja'far's eyes narrow at that, and he promptly leans up to blow a stream of smoke directly into Sinbad's face. "Forgive me, if I can't immediately come up with a way to redeem myself and return to them that doesn't require killing you and your entire crew. I'm buying time while I can."

 

Sinbad gives himself a moment to enjoy both the sight and the feel of Ja’far’s breath on his face before jumping a piece four times. “Masrur was wrong, then. He told me you didn’t care for their mission, only that it was work to do that you were good at.”

 

"Masrur, apparently, talks too much to the wrong people," Ja'far grumbles, eyeing the board before jumping a single piece. "I _don't_ care what Al-Sarmen's mission is. That doesn't mean Judal does not need to be returned safely to Kou. It also hardly means I feel like dying just yet. Leaving them means certain death. At least this way, I have a chance of avoiding it."  

 

“Excellent, and turn into a monster several hundred years later, or die before then. Good plan.” Sinbad jumps twice, and smiles down at the board. “Very good plan.”

 

"Do you know how annoying it is, that you constantly assume you know what the best plan of action is for someone and yet offer no real, concrete alternatives? That's twice you've done it today," Ja'far says, frowning, and he pushes himself up half-way. "Now, and concerning Masrur."

 

“I thought I had, in this case. Work for me instead.” Sinbad grins. “Ja’far the Sailor, they’ll never expect it.”

 

"You're joking." Ja'far tries to shake the odd flutter in his stomach, and manages, somewhat as he moves his next piece. "I can barely go four hours without being seasick still, and that's the _least_ inconvenient part of such a proposition." 

 

“You keep your food down now, at least,” Sinbad points out. “And we’re not always at sea, we’re in port probably half the time. Just been out at sea more because Judal feels more comfortable, but I doubt that’ll last much longer.” He moves, skipping twice. “Go to new places, discover new cultures, meet exciting people, catch interesting diseases, you name it, we go everywhere.”

 

"And Al-Sarmen will follow you for the rest of your life, wanting you dead because you kept one of their Named." Never _mind_ that leaving is unheard of. No one ever leaves Al-Sarmen. One dies, or one stays. Isnan is the living proof of exactly how _long_ that stay is. The thought actually makes his stomach churn anew and his head ache, and Ja'far pushes himself entirely upright. "I forfeit." The leaves in his pipe are almost done, anyway, and Ja'far sets it down, making to stand. "Thank you for your company." 

 

Sinbad waves a hand. “Thank me for the pipe, my company is free. Wake Sharrkan on your way, will you? He’s due to relieve Masrur at watch in a quarter hour.”

 

Ja'far nods shortly, turning towards the door and trying not to think on how it'd be _nice_ if Sinbad stopped him and told him _no, it's fine, there's no way Al-Sarmen can kill me, I still want you to work for me_ even if it's entirely, miserably untrue. 

 

It isn't as if he _really_ wants Ja'far, anyway. Not really. (Why would he? Sinbad hates him, and the man loves a good joke, besides). 

 

"Good night, then." The sooner he's back in Kou, back to _work_ , the better. Being around these people is making his mind far too active in all the worst ways.


	6. Chapter 6

Sinbad and his crew are _not_ , as he keeps trying to tell people unsuccessfully, pirates.

 

That doesn’t mean pirates don’t _exist_.

 

The emergency bell wakes him from near-absolute slumber, and he half-falls out of his bed, scrambling into at least a pair of trousers before leaving Judal behind, hitting the deck at a dead run at the call of “All hands on deck! All hands on deck!” 

 

“Douse the torches!” Sinbad shouts, leaping into the rigging as men pour from the foc’sle, a few long leaps bringing him to the crow’s nest before the first cannon is fired. He narrows his eyes into the darkness, but the pirates are canny, and almost certainly have a magician guiding them, by the way their ship glides in the total absence of light. “Man the cannons! Gunners at the ready! Be ready to hit the deck on my command!”

 

Paranoia is the thing that keeps Ja'far awake at night, and also makes him immediately think that this is some Al-Sarmen arranged stunt. 

 

Unlikely, that, but it still makes him a bit too _twitchy_ , in particular about Judal's presence when the brat finds his way out onto the deck in short order. "Back into the cabin," Ja'far lowly insists, and the Magi growls, attempting to wriggle out of his guardian's death grip. 

 

"But they're using magic. I can, too! I can just blow them up and stuff!"

 

"And let Al-Sarmen immediately know where you are after using that much power?" That seems to mollify Judal for all of a second, though with each blast of the canons, Ja'far can't help but think it might be _easier_ letting the brat just take care of this mess. 

 

“Deck!” Sinbad catches the glint of cannon fire--not nearly enough, they _must_ be using magic to cloak themselves, the bastards--and most of the crew hit the deck on his word.

 

 _Most_ of the crew.

 

Sinbad sprints, cursing himself for not having remembered to have someone brief Ja’far on all their call signals, and tackles the man a split-second before a double-burst of cannon fire, one ball smashing into the hold, the other whizzing overhead exactly where Ja’far had been standing.

 

Any and all consideration that Ja'far might have given Sinbad's offer from the previous night goes out the window. 

 

It's one thing to nearly die in some one-on-one fight--something else to nearly be destroyed by _a goddamn canon_ , and Ja'far hisses into the deck, trying to steady himself as quickly as possible after having the breath knocked out of him. "Let Judal _sink them_ ," he bites out against his better judgement, sort of belatedly realizing that Sinbad _saved him_ , of all the stupid things in this world, and now is not the time to be off-kilter over that fact. "We won't be able to avoid Al-Sarmen if _your_ ship gets sunk."

 

Sinbad only grins. 

 

He looks up at the ghost ship, then leans down quickly and gives Ja’far a hard kiss on the mouth, holding it for several seconds too long to be innocent. “For luck,” he says with a wink, and stands, grabbing the sword of Baal as he starts to hover in the air. “Spirit of Rage and Heroism, come forth. Dwell in my body, Baal!” 

 

The next cannon’s shot is split by the crackling blade, and Sinbad’s laugh echoes over the sea. Brightly, abruptly, the enemy ship is illuminated in a roar of lightning, and Sinbad speeds toward it in a flash, white heat enveloping him, silhouetting the pirate ship against the sky in an explosion large enough to light up the night.

 

A minute or so later, Sinbad drifts back to the _Sindria_ , wiping sweat from his brow as he sheathes his sword. “Her back’s broken,” he says with a tired grin, leaning back against the mainmast. “Board, take everything but what they need to limp back to land.”

 

Ja'far, for his part, still finds himself sort of dazed, his heart thudding too fast in his chest and _that has to be because he nearly died, that's the only damned reason._

 

He's been kissed dozens upon dozens of times in his life, in instances far more ridiculous than _that_ , so it can't be that, not at all.

 

Even with that line of thinking, it doesn't stop him from making one final check-in with Judal--making sure the Magi is less terrified, more content at just being a worm, huddled up in a blanket or two and complaining about all the noise--before then ducking out of sight. Mostly, at least. 

 

It would have behooved Sinbad to _let him die_. 

 

God, he has a headache.

 

_I should probably find Ja’far._

 

Sinbad doesn’t really want to--he wants to go curl up with his Captive Booty, as Judal insists on calling himself, and sleep for a straight day. 

 

But what if….

 

Stupid, that he hauls himself down to the hold, when he’s shirtless and sweating and feeling entirely pleased with himself, all to lean on the doorframe and toss a small heavy bag to Ja’far. “Your share of the spoils.”

 

Instinct bids him to catch, though he nearly drops it with how he starts at the same time. There isn't anything about him that isn't _on edge_ , a dozen times over even when canons had been firing. 

 

 _Join me, work for me, leave Al-Samen, this is for luck_ \--

 

"… Considering I did little but make sure Judal remained in his worm state, I hardly deserve it." Ja'far looks up, looks at _Sinbad_ , and regrets it with all of his heart that wants to thud its way out of his chest. "Shouldn't you be resting?" 

 

“I’ll rest soon enough.” Sinbad considers it a minor victory that Ja’far didn’t kill him on the spot, what with how Sinbad had surprised him. “You did earn it. Over the last month, you’ve been invaluable to me. I reward work like that.”

 

He grins. “Plus, you made me lucky.”

 

"What _was_ that, anyway?" Ja'far snaps too-fast, jerking his eyes away again as his skin heats up. "You can't just go around kissing people out of the blue, and I can assure you, I'm anything _but_ lucky. There's no such thing." 

 

“It was just a kiss,” Sinbad says, no matter how he can remember every second of it, remember exactly how Ja’far’s lips tasted, his body felt under Sinbad’s, and he’s _never_ paid that kind of attention to a mere kiss in his life. “Besides, I sank the other ship, right? All by myself? That was pretty lucky. I should keep you around just for that.”

 

"That was because of your _skill_ , not any luck." His freckles are going to burn off at this rate. Ja'far isn't _used_ to blushing, isn't used to feeing off-kilter at all, and of course it would be _Sinbad_ \--obnoxious bastard--to make it happen. 

 

“I accept the compliment,” Sinbad says graciously, “but give credit where credit is due. It’s an old sailor’s superstition, kiss the prettiest man on board to think about what you’re coming home to after battle.”

 

Ja'far can't help but _stare_ at that. "I blend in with the sand." Or he would, if there was sand about. 

 

“Then it’s a good thing there’s no sand about.” Sinbad grins. “You don’t taste like sand.”

 

"How would you know, it was only for a second!" Oh, god, that sounds like an _invitation_ doesn't it? Ja'far groans, wiping a hand over his face. "I'm going to go jump overboard." 

 

Sinbad tries not to laugh. It doesn’t go too well. “If you want me to get a better picture of your kisses, you don’t need to go so far. I’ll give you mouth-to-mouth without the seawater.”

 

"Not if I drown myself first." That sounds _good_ right about now.

 

Sinbad raises an eyebrow. “That bad, was it? I can do better.”

 

"It's--" Ja'far contemplates taking a knife to his own throat. "It has nothing to do with that," he mutters, turning away to sit down. "It has nothing to do with anything, really. I think I'm just seasick and not making sense." 

 

Sinbad sighs, reaching over to tousle Ja’far’s hair, then stops himself, a bit aghast. They’re not _friends_ , he reminds himself. They’re certainly not _lovers_. “Well,” he says instead, “don’t let it stop you from enjoying the spoils, or the party, next time we make port. We should be in Balbadd by tomorrow’s noon, so rest up.”

 

Another drinking party is the _last_ thing Ja'far wants. The problem lies not in the suffocating number of people, or the crew in general being a bunch of idiots--it's far more the fact he vaguely enjoys himself, and he's certain with every passing moment of that, it ticks off some box, negatively impacting his abilities as a member of Al-Sarmen. 

 

"Right. The same to you, then." _I'm going to lock myself down here and copy books down all day and you can just go and be drunk and we can forget all of this happened._

 

 

~~~

 

'Resting up' is a good idea in theory, though Ja'far does little of it.

 

While the rest of the crew buzzes with excitement the moment they pull into Balbadd's port--and with good reason, it being one of the largest and most prosperous port nations in their world--Ja'far is hardly inclined to even lift his head from the books. If anything, he hides behind them a bit more, not quite of the mind to socialize, let alone meet Sinbad's eye. 

 

Far better this way, he firmly decides. No matter what Sinbad offers, no matter what he says or does--what _anyone_ says or does--there is nothing that can change the inevitable. 

 

The Captain’s orders are the Captain’s orders, and as far as Masrur is concerned, that’s all there is to that.

 

So when the Captain says to bring Ja’far to make sure he partakes in all the revelry of the crew after a rather substantial victory, Masrur takes that seriously. He doesn’t knock when he enters the tiny cabin stuffed with books and scrolls, just looms suddenly in the doorway. “Time to go.”

 

Ja'far barely looks up over the edge of his books. If anything, he slinks down a bit more. "Go on without me. I'm not feeling terribly up for company today; you'll enjoy the city more without my complaints." 

 

“Captain’s orders. You’re to enjoy yourself.”

 

Ja'far stops himself for what feels like the thousandth time from telling Masrur where he can shove his captain's orders. "I'll enjoy myself here just fine. I have a lot of work to do."

 

Masrur hadn’t asked the Captain what to do if Ja’far refused. He knows Sin well enough by now. 

 

So instead of arguing, which is _not_ one of his talents, Masrur simply picks Ja’far up and carries him from the room.

 

Ja'far doesn't shriek. That would be incredibly undignified, a dozen times worse than being tossed over Masrur's shoulder like a child, and instead he hisses, giving one, pointed thrash before flopping down, scowling. "Put me down."

 

Silence is just as good as an answer in this case, and Masrur strides down the deck, vaulting over the side of the ship and landing lightly on the ground. It’s a short walk to the city, and that makes it easier than usual to ignore Ja’far’s complaints on the way to the palace. Once inside the gates, he sets Ja’far down on his feet. “You might want to walk in.”

 

For a moment, the assassin settles for staring. "… You're joking. Why are we here?" 

 

“That’s where the party is.” Masrur puts a hand on Ja’far’s back, urging him forward.

 

Ja'far gives a firm shake of his head as he plants his feet, forcing down the surge of panic that wants to well up. _When you wanted to chat Sinbad up about Al-Sarmen barely days prior to this, you should have done it_ , that little voice snidely reminds him. God, had he been _high_ last night when Sinbad had mentioned Balbadd? 

 

Then again, he hadn't expected the man to be visiting the _palace_.

 

"I'm not going. Where's Judal?" _Please tell me Sinbad didn't take him in there already._

 

“Already inside.” Masrur had given him a chance to walk on his own, but seeing as Ja’far is being stubborn, he picks the smaller man up again.

 

"Damn it, Masrur!" It comes out as more a hiss than anything, and Ja'far twists within his hold, shoving against his shoulder to try and turn and glare at him. "Put me down! I'm not going in! _You_ go in, get Sinbad, and tell him to leave and bring Judal with him! There's--"

 

"Is _that_ your woman that Captain Sinbad was talking about?"

 

The young, awe-filled voice makes it less mocking, more hilarious (if the damned phrasing could _ever_ be considered funny), and Ja'far jerks, twisting to have a look at the blond-haired boy standing on the palace steps. He couldn't be any older than Judal, and by the way he's dressed, is _definitely_ some sort of noble at the least--worse, if memory serves by description alone, he's probably the youngest prince. Ja'far groans, slumping down. That's it. He's done, they're done. It was a nice ride while it lasted.

 

Masrur gives the boy a short bow. “Prince Alibaba.”

 

From the doorway, Sinbad remarks, “I’d have thought he’d rather stab you than have some fun, but it looks like I was wrong. Come on, His Highness has laid out quite a spread for us weary travelers.” He claps the boy familiarly on the shoulder, and Masrur follows his beckon, one hand closed gently (for the moment) around Ja’far’s upper arm.

 

Ja'far briefly contemplates killing them all out of mercy. 

 

The thought is quickly shoved aside when Judal floats up to Sinbad's side, not shy in the least about using his magic, even now, and another little stab of panic rakes down Ja'far spine in spite of himself. They're doomed. "Let me go," he hisses again, yanking on his arm, and adds a bit more loudly. "Sinbad--Sinbad, I need to _talk to you_." 

 

Sinbad can count the number of times Ja’far has asked for his company on zero hands, and the urgency in his voice is compelling. At a nod, Masrur drops Ja’far’s arm, and Sinbad gives the prince a quick smile. “Back in a moment, Highness.”

 

He’s at Ja’far’s side in a flash, leading him a few steps down the walkway. “What is it? Danger?”

 

"When I asked you what connections you had in Balbadd and you told me a _tax official's wife_ \--" Ja'far throws up a frustrated hand. "What are we doing here in the palace? If I had known, I would have made certain we never came close."

 

“I _am_ sleeping with a tax official’s wife,” Sinbad says cheerfully. “I’m just friends with the Prince because he’s a good kid, and his father asked me to take him under my wing a bit. What’s wrong, what’s in the palace that I need to know about?”

 

Ja'far sucks in a calming breath. "Why do you think it's so easy for the Kou Empire to influence the flow of Balbadd's trade nowadays?" he lowly replies. "They're loaning Balbadd money at every turn as the king grows old and the country's finances grow weaker. The king doesn't necessarily _listen_ all of the time, or so I've heard, but he isn't available on every opportunity… and that's when his decisions are managed by The Banker." 

 

Something about the way Ja’far says the title makes it sound very capitalized, and that can mean only one thing. “One of your old friends?”

 

"One of my _coworkers_ ," Ja'far stiffly corrects. "I'm not sure if he's still here or not, but there's always a chance."

 

Sinbad nods slowly, thinking. “Is he as dangerous as the Weapon’s Dealer?”

 

"He's a paper pusher. That doesn't mean he can't summon others here as needed, and let them know of our location--as if Judal floating around isn't a rumor mill enough, I thought I told you to make him behave!"

 

Sinbad shrugs at that, a little chagrined nonetheless. “He does it without thinking, I didn’t want to hear him sulk anymore. Besides, we’re in the _palace_. If Al-Sarmen is influencing Balbadd subtley, I doubt they’ll want to move openly against us while we’re here, right?”

 

"You underestimate how badly they want the Oracle back. Have you no idea how much difficulty it took for them to obtain him?" Ja'far isn't quite sure when he started speaking of Al-Sarmen as a separate entity from himself, but that's troublesome, and he grits his teeth, hands clenching into fists at his sides. "I'm taking Judal and going back to the ship." 

 

Sinbad steps in front of him. “He’ll whine and pout and sulk for days,” he points out. “I’ve been promising him this for a while now, and he’s been _very_ well-behaved. Besides, if we _know_ they might come, we’re ready.” He grins. “And I always have you if I need some extra luck.”

 

Ja'far hates the way his skin heats up at that, and he jerks his eyes away. "You still have no idea what you're up against, do you?"

 

“I like it better that way. More of a fair fight.” He leans down, close to Ja’far’s ear when he murmurs, “They have no idea what they’re up against either.”

 

 _You have no idea how much we know_ , Ja'far wants to say, but he bites his lip in lieu of responding immediately in hopes of stifling the shiver that dares slide down his spine. "… It's an awful idea and if something goes wrong, don't blame me." 

 

Sinbad grabs Ja’far by the arm, hauling him up to the Palace. “Deal. Now come drink, the Prince is very generous!”

 

 _You're an idiot, such a bloody idiot._  

 

It's actually disheartening to see how _young_ the Third Prince of Balbadd is--young and eager and so damnably excited about his country. Ja'far can't exactly claim to have a soft spot when it comes to children, as he turns a blind eye to the younger princes and princess of the Kou Empire oft enough, but it's more _this one_ , with enough starting naivety to fill Sinbad's entire ship. How he manages that underneath any guidance of Sinbad's is beyond Ja'far, and it shouldn't matter, besides. It's another notch under Al-Sarmen's belt, if they're successful here. 

 

"So you're a Magi, right?" Alibaba's eyes practically sparkle. "Is it true, you give kings all sorts of treasure and power and--"

 

"I'm not ever doing that for _you_ , if that's what you're gonna ask," Judal sniffs. "Sinbad had a dungeon when he was your age. He's waaaay cooler." 

 

Ja'far ignores the squabble in favor of draining his wine glass, eyes darting for the umpteenth time about the hall. It worries him more that it's been a quiet evening, save for the women that tried to paw their way all over Sinbad and his crew, himself included. One in particular, blonde and curly haired and far too handsy, had at least seemed to be scared off when she felt half a dozen daggers strapped to one of his thighs, though he can _still_ smell the cloud of her perfume where she rubbed against his shoulder. Why did men like this sort of thing again?

 

For his own part, Sinbad considers the night to be quite a success indeed. The women are happy, the crew is drunk, and everyone except Ja’far (to be expected) seems to be having fun. Sinbad even holds out hope for that, tipping a servant to keep filling Ja’far’s wine glass whenever it gets under halfway full.

 

Before too long they’re engaged in some sort of traditional game Sinbad doesn’t really understand, but grasps quickly enough the fact that he’s supposed to balance a vase on his head while someone throws a dagger at it. “How about it, Ja’far?” he calls, grabbing the vase to general cheers. “You as good with those things as you say you are?”

 

"I don't think--"

 

No sooner than he attempts to protest is he shoved forward, and heaving a sigh, he hikes up one side of his robe--ignoring the predictable catcalls--to pull out a couple of daggers. "It's a little hard to break habits of sending it through your eye and neck. You're certain you want me to do this?" 

 

Flushed with wine and success (and the sight, however fleeting, of those thighs), Sinbad only grins. “Have to start trusting you as a member of the crew sometime. Come on, give me your best shot!”

 

Ja'far hates (likes) that response so much that it takes some effort not to send a dagger through Sinbad's heart (that's probably the wrong kind of reaction, he knows). A slow breath, and Ja'far aims, the first dagger meeting its mark and shattering the vase, and the second cutting through the breaking remains before they're even finished crumbling down. 

 

There’s a second of dumbfounded silence, then a chorus of cheers, men running forward to pat Ja’far on the back. Sinbad raises an eyebrow, unsure just how many saw the second dagger, or the amount of skill that had taken. _A valuable asset._

 

“Your turn!” he calls, and hauls Ja’far into the place he’d been standing, plopping a new vase onto his head. “Pick your partner.”

 

"Don't I get to skip because I won?" Ja'far protests, removing the vase with a wary glance around. Honestly, there's no one except--ah, god, help him, Sinbad's _drunk_. 

 

“If you won’t choose,” Sinbad warns, a huge grin splitting his face, “we’ll go with Masrur. Masrur, how long’s it been since you held a blade?”

 

Masrur, roaringly drunk, reaches down and closes his hand over the hilt of his sword. “Now.”

 

"No," Ja'far hastily vetoes, waving a hand in sharp protest. "That is not going to happen. Look, just-- _you_ do it," he settles upon, reaching back to wrench his daggers from the wall they buried themselves into and pushing one into Sinbad's hand. 

 

Sinbad takes the dagger, twirling it in the air and catching it delicately by the point. “Nothing to worry about,” he assures Ja’far, even if his feet aren’t quite as steady as his fingers. “Used to toss these for my supper in ash-Sham when I was younger.” 

 

He draws back, feeling the familiar slight weight of the dagger in his fingertips, and just for fun, says, “Wait a second. Let’s make it interesting.”

 

He leaps into the air, catching the dagger in his teeth, and lands on his hands, holding his body upside down, before carefully raising onto one hand only. “Okay,” he says, hefting the dagger in his hand, “Now don’t move.”

 

"You have got to be kidding me," is the only thing Ja'far can stand to mutter, and resigns himself to standing perfectly still. God help Al-Sarmen and their mission to murder him. These pirates are going to do it first. 

 

It takes a lot more skill than strength to hold himself like this for any length of time, and Sinbad’s fingers are starting to cramp. He draws back, holding his breath, and lets fly, shattering the vase in a shower of pottery to general applause as he flips back to his feet. “There,” he pronounces, throwing an arm around Ja’far’s shoulders. “Now you’re really one of us!”

 

Ja'far has no idea what letting a dagger be thrown at a vase on his head has to do with _anything_ , let alone 'really' becoming part of Sinbad's crew.

 

More alarming is that he sort of likes the sentiment. 

 

He swallows, wriggling out from underneath Sinbad's arm. "Do you _mind?_ You're sweaty and reek of wine." 

 

“Still snappy! Someone get him more wine!” 

 

At Sinbad’s call, a dozen wine glasses are shoved at Ja’far, one or two attempting to tip the cups down his throat. Sinbad takes the opportunity to pull the young Prince to the side, bending his ear. “How’s your father?”

 

Alibaba, far less capable of holding his wine, blinks up at Sinbad somewhat glassy-eyed when he turns away from the scene of Ja'far shoving one man away and flipping another onto their head for their trouble. "… About the same," he answers slowly, frowning as he thinks on it a bit more. "The healers say they can't do very much anymore, but he's still fighting." 

 

“He would.” Sinbad squeezes the boy’s shoulder, asking the question he’s probably not too thrilled to hear yet. “Do you think you’re ready to be king?”

 

"… I don't know," Alibaba admits, his brow furrowing worriedly. "But… I'll try anyway. This country needs me, and I can't just disappoint all of these people. I was hoping it'd be a few years yet, though," he sheepishly adds. "Because I wanted to spend some time on your ship, just once." 

 

Sinbad laughs. “Don’t worry about that. You’ve been working with your father to set up your cabinet, right? I’m sure after a few years they’ll be working so smoothly no one will mind if you go adventuring for a few months.” _And I’ll do whatever I have to to make sure your country stays free and independent until then._ “Do you know of a man called Banker?”

 

Alibaba thinks before slowly nodding. "Yeah. I mean, yes--I've seen him come to Father's meetings a few times. He's very strange looking, sort of hard to miss… why?" 

 

What would be better, to warn him? To tell him to banish the man from his country? Or would that only bring more of them, and in greater numbers? _Either way, the man is doing Balbadd no favors. Better to risk war than to be mindless slaves._ “I’ve heard through some of my connections he’s serving other masters, who want no good for Balbadd. Do as you see fit.”

 

"… I'll mention it to Father. In private, of course," Alibaba hastily adds. "I don't think he likes Banker, anyway, so he'll probably be glad to have a reason to be rid of him." 

 

“Good man. Hey…” Sinbad ruffles Alibaba’s golden hair affectionately. “You know you don’t need to be too afraid, right? I’ll still stop in as often as you need me to, make sure no one’s trying to bully you until you’ve gotten onto your feet.”

 

"No one's going to bully me!" Alibaba immediately protests, batting Sinbad's hands away even as he grins. "I'm not _afraid_ , I just want to make sure I do it right. Being a king is _hard_ , you know." 

 

“Why do you think I’m not one?” Sinbad teases, tweaking Alibaba’s nose. “Don’t worry, your father chose you for a reason. I’m sure you won’t have any problems that the occasional rowdy bunch of pirates can’t fix.”

 

"… Just don't bring that Magi next time, he's _mean._ "

 

“He’s just jealous that you don’t _need_ a Magi to be a fabulously wealthy king,” Sinbad lies.

 

"Well, so long as that's all it is. He said some really mean stuff about my magoi, which isn't even _fair_ , I haven't had a _chance_ to go conquering dungeons."

 

“I’m sure you’d conquer the hell out of a dungeon.” Judal really has been a brat, there’s nothing wrong with Alibaba’s magoi. He’s certainly got enough to conquer a dungeon, as far as Sinbad can tell. “Tell you what, when we go adventuring, I’ll get you all set up and equipped and take you right to a dungeon.”

 

It's nearly impossible to keep his composure and not _bounce_. "Really? You're serious?"

 

“Sure,” Sinbad promises easily. “And no one knows more about conquering dungeons than me, so you know no one will be more prepared. You just have to try your best not to die.”

 

Alibaba scowls at that. "I'm not going to _die_ , I'm a Prince of Balbadd! Father says he's going to give me his sword and everything, when I take the throne!"

 

“That’s quite an offer. What about your brothers, are they making any more trouble for you?” Sinbad makes sure to hold Alibaba’s eyes, knowing how the boy tends to evade.

 

A bit of hesitation follows. "Well… Sahbmad hasn't been, but Ahbmad's always sort of weird. It's fine. I just ignore it nowadays, I can be a good king with or without them." 

 

“Good lad. Just remember, Rashid chose you for a reason.” Sinbad reaches behind Alibaba, snagging another glass of wine. “To the next king of Balbadd, long may he reign!”

 

The cheer that goes up is deafening, and Alibaba grins, grabbing for his own glass of wine to drink even if he's _already_ close to being _too_ drunk.

 

It's not until after the party ends, with most of the crew retiring and the servants beginning to clean up the mess left in their wake, that Ja'far manages to pry himself away. Judal, thankfully, succumbs to wine easily enough, and with the Magi properly bundled up and put to bed… well, he doesn't exactly _relax,_ but a chance to slink out to one of the balconies and smoke while keeping an eye on things is pleasant enough. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe Banker _isn't_ here, and maybe relaxing for even five minutes is _fine_. 

 

“The air is nice here, isn’t it?”

 

Sinbad peels himself away from the wall, leaning over the balcony to watch the lights winking on and off below in the city, and away across the mountains and the sea.

 

"… Surprisingly," Ja'far murmurs, leaning against the railing with a slow, easy exhale. "I haven't been here in a long while. It's colder than I remember at night, which is refreshing." 

 

“The wind’s coming in from the desert. That always cools things down.” Sinbad steals Ja’far’s pipe for a deep inhale, then hands it back. “It wouldn’t have changed anything. If I’d known Al-Sarmen was here, I’d still have come.”

 

"That just makes you an arrogant fool, you know," Ja'far sighs out, dropping his chin into one hand as he looks over at the other man. "Am I supposed to be impressed?" 

 

“Just letting you know. I don’t run from them. And I don’t let them take what’s mine.” He nudges Ja’far with his shoulder. “That includes you, now.”

 

Ja'far hopes the darkness hides the way his face flames and the way his brow furrows, even though he promptly looks away. "… If you hadn't had me dragged to this ridiculous party, I was going to go into town myself tonight. Well, assuming I had the chance to even _ask_ Masrur what he'd want for his birthday. Hell if I know." 

 

“Armor oil is good. He uses an expensive one without scent, says all the others are too harsh on his nose.” Sinbad scratches the back of his neck, thinking. “He’s pretty hard to shop for. Doesn’t like a lot of _things_ cluttering him up. No blades, he’s rusty as hell with them.”

 

Ja'far shudders at the thought. "I'll figure something out, then. Thank you." Drawing his pipe back to his lips, he hesitates, then rewinds and revises the next words on his tongue a dozen times before actually speaking. "There's no way I can stay as a part of your crew, no matter how many times you say it." 

 

“Wrong.” Sinbad inhales the night air, a faint smile on his face. “There’s always a way. A price, probably, but that’s not the same as it being impossible. Just depends on if you want it or not.”

 

"… You constantly preach about freedom. Surely you can realize being chased for the remainder of one's life is in no way _free_." Ja'far's eyes lid, the pipe dangling from his fingers. "Judal, too. This little… excursion, it needs to end, if only for his sake." 

 

Sinbad sighs. “I know you mean….as well as you can by him, given the circumstances. I just...he likes Kouen. He likes making you happy. He likes being spoiled. He’s been in Kou for what, a decade? If he hasn’t chosen Kouen by now, what makes you think he ever will? And then what will Al-Sarmen do to him?”

 

"He hasn't chosen yet because he still wants to be babied and pampered, and not be a proper Magi, whatever that means." Ja'far drums his fingers against one cheek, annoyed. "Kouen's head is in the clouds half the time, but he's still kind to Judal, and that makes him keep coming back. Either way, Judal is safer there, doing as he's bid. Al-Sarmen, as I mentioned, has worked for ages to obtain a Magi. If Judal slips from their fingers, that is far worse than him returning and even being manipulated by them." 

 

“Unless we make them realize we’re to be taken seriously,” Sinbad offers. “If you’d let Judal use his powers freely without caring--we could lure them onto a battlefield of our choosing, and make them realize it isn’t worth it to keep pursuing us. Between you, me, Judal, and Masrur, I honestly don’t think anyone in the world would stand a chance.”

 

"You're a fool," Ja'far sighs out, his eyes slitting as he looks to Sinbad again. "Judal is a glass canon, Masrur good only for a hit, and you can still only use one djinn at a time. And me--I haven't a vessel to speak of, and against Al-Sarmen, I'm limited. They have magicians with powers beyond what you can even comprehend, capable of controlling and corrupting and even killing Magi. They've done it in the past, they will do it again, if need be." 

 

“Ja’far.” Sinbad turns, quiet, confident, and meets the younger man’s eyes. “It would be worth it.”

 

It's the _confidence_ in Sinbad's voice that makes his heart thud. No matter how many times Ja'far has told the man that he's wrong, and given good, _real_ reasons to back up his point, Sinbad disagrees with as much confidence as before, as if he really can conquer the world and Al-Sarmen with it. 

 

"… I'm not so sure." He sucks in a slow breath. "I'd like to be, but I'm not." 

 

“Then….” Sinbad extends his hand, palm-up. “Try trusting me. I’ve been through a hundred situations men have said were impossible. I’m still here. My friends are still here. Not even Al-Sarmen knows everything about the way the world works, or what will happen. Trust me.”

 

Ja'far frowns at the extended hand before his gaze slides back up, openly troubled. "… This is a lot more trust than simply letting you throw a dagger at my head. I'm not… I don't think you understand, the hold that Al-Sarmen still has on me."

 

Sinbad raises an eyebrow. “You think I extend this kind of thing to any member of a society I’ve sworn hatred of? I’ve been watching you for months now. I’ve given you plenty of chances to kill me and take Judal. And now, I’m offering you honest friendship, if you’ll have it.”

 

 _I haven't told you how you're still supposed to die, how your ship needs to sink, how you need to be wiped entirely off the map_ \--

 

Ja'far bites it back. It's on the tip of his tongue, and it would make for a very, very good wall to throw up between them, something he _needs_ right then,  but he shoves it aside. 

 

 _Damn it, the stupidity around here is infectious_. 

 

"I'm not… very good, at this friendship thing." Ja'far hesitates a moment longer before slowly sliding his hand forward to rest it within Sinbad's. "I'm not very good at much of anything, actually, outside of killing people and filing paperwork."

 

The smile Sinbad gives him is the warmest one so far in their acquaintance, and he squeezes Ja’far’s hand, marveling at how small it is in his own. “Fortunately for you,” he says, pulling Ja’far a bit closer, “there’s _lots_ of time to learn.”

 

_Not if they kill me first. They're going to kill me, definitely going to kill me, take Judal and--_

 

Thankfully, the hard thudding of his heart is more than enough to silence the rapidly panicking churn of his mind. Ja'far swallows slowly, and he leans into the tug, just a bit, pocketing his long-burnt out pipe and keeping one hand on the balcony railing as his knees wobble. The worst thing is that Sinbad is warm, startlingly so, especially in the chill of the night air. "… Forgive me, but I'm fairly certain _friends_ don't hold onto one another's hands for quite so long?" 

 

Sinbad bows over Ja’far’s hand, and with a last squeeze, lets it go. Where had the urge to lean down and _kiss_ it come from? “I hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable. I’m really quite harmless, you know.”

 

"That's a flat out lie," Ja'far manages, _trying_ to calm his pulse down and failing. He'd thought, just for a moment, that maybe Sinbad would… do something. Anything. _Anything_ is better than the cacophony in his head, and it makes him a little desperate. "Sin. Captain. I mean. I didn't… I wasn't complaining." _Oh, just throw me off the balcony and put me out of my misery._

 

“But you are more than my friend.” Ja’far is really very different like this, less pissy and more off-balance, more uncertain. Sinbad likes it, a _lot_. “You’re a member of my crew now. You can call me Sin if you want.” He grins, tugging on a strand of Ja’far’s hair. “I like it.”

 

What does he even _say_ to that? What does he say to any of this, how does he react, how does he-- _anything_ \--really--

 

The tightness in his chest is impossible to ignore, the pounding in his head worse, and Ja'far lurches up onto his toes, kissing Sinbad against all of his better judgement. 

 

For once in his life, Sinbad hadn’t been expecting a move like this. 

 

The shock only lasts a second, and then desire takes over, and his arm snakes around Ja’far’s back, pulling him close, kissing him back hard and deep and long, pulling them flush together as his blood pounds, a release of tension so strong his skin tingles with it up and down his arms, from the top of his head shooting down his spine to pool in his abdomen, a fire stronger than any of the wine.

 

Then he pulls back, letting go with a harsh breath. He offers Ja’far what’s supposed to be a rakish grin, but probably comes across as more shaky than anything, before nodding once and ducking back inside.

 

Ja'far's legs wobble again, and slowly, he simply sits down onto the stone floor, back flopping against the railing as he tries to remember how to breathe.

 

Tonight--today--this _month_ has not been made of some of his better decisions, but damn it all, if they don't make him feel _good_. 

 

Sinbad had made certain to get Masrur a room with Ja’far again, something Masrur appreciates. Ja’far always sleeps better when warm and still, and he doesn’t sleep nearly enough. 

 

One look at the Captain’s face when he stumbles away from the balcony, breathing heavily and with his lips swollen, and Masrur’s steps slow on the way outside, knowing Ja’far will be there. “Tired?”

 

Ja'far starts, unfocused as he is, and _that_ is a problem he needs to fix, and soon. "… I thought you had gone to bed," he murmurs, slowly rising to his feet again, no matter how his legs shake. "You were so drunk I expected you to collapse." 

 

“It leaves me quickly.” Masrur gets an arm around Ja’far’s waist, hardly noticing that he lifts the smaller man by accident. Ah. Maybe he is still fairly drunk. “I could collapse if you want.”

 

He almost looses a shoe in the process of dangling, and Ja'far chokes down a rather undignified noise as he loops an arm about Masrur's neck to steady himself. "Leaves you--I think you're still drunk, can you… put me down?" Even if it's sort of nice. Ja'far shivers, hooking his chin over the other man's shoulder in short order. "Or not." Probably, he should feel more guilty. More accurately, he thinks about what it would be like to have two warm bodies wrapped around him.

 

“Easier to carry you,” Masrur grunts, and now that he notices it, he hefts Ja’far up onto his hip, the way he’d carry a child. “I can go to sleep when we get to the room if you want.”

 

"Why would I want that? You can do as you like." Ja'far wriggles up a bit to be more comfortable, expression wry. Ah, well, he's not sure how normal people address this sort of thing, but… "Does it bother you?" 

 

“I meant I can...you can go.” Masrur wishes, sometimes, that he were so, so much better with words. “It’s...fine, right?”

 

"… I'd rather stay." It's not a lie. Ja'far is far from convinced that kissing Sinbad was a good decision, closer to a very bad one. He sighs, eyes lidding. "It doesn't…" How do people say these things, and seemingly so easily? He's really inadequate, when it comes to dealing with this sort of thing. "It doesn't make… me want less of you." Ah, that was uncomfortable. 

 

Masrur hesitates. “I don’t….none of it makes me afraid.” That’s right, right? Normally Sin would help him with this sort of thing. “I would rather spend time around you than….not. Whatever Sin says, you aren’t my woman.”

 

Ja'far stifles a snort into Masrur's neck at that. "No, I'm not. You're right. I'd be an awful woman or companion of any sort. You deserve someone much better, but… you tend to be good company, yourself." 

 

Masrur nods his head in thanks. “Do you want to spend tonight with the Captain? Everyone does.”

 

"… I almost feel like it would be predictable if I said 'yes', then." Ja'far feels somewhat inclined to bang his head into a wall. Masrur's shoulder works just as well in a pinch. "Or maybe both of you could fit in a bed with me one of these days." That was probably overstepping. 

 

Masrur thinks about that for a moment. “I’m not sure how big the beds here are. I take up a lot of space. And Sin kicks.”

 

Ja'far makes a face. "He'd have to leave afterwards." 

 

“Or he can sleep on the floor.”

 

"He'd still move. That's the problem, the movement." 

 

“He passes out when he’s finished. I’ll probably just carry him back to his room afterwards.”

 

Ja'far can't decide if that's amusing or vaguely inconvenient, for the loss of a warm pillow he'd have for five minutes. "… It's not too awkward, for you?" he hedges. "The whole idea, I mean."

 

Masrur raises an eyebrow. “He’s not my father. He just acts like it sometimes.”

 

Perhaps it's Sinbad he should ask that question to. "… Then I can go and get him." _If he isn't already wrapped around Judal_. This is just going to be one of those days, isn't it? Or nights, Ja'far supposes. 

 

Masrur nods. “I’ll start a fire.”

 

Ja'far isn't sure if this counts as a good idea (probably not), but it _sounds_ like a fun one.

 

He hops out of Masrur's arms, hesitating a moment longer before stretching up onto his tiptoes, just barely managing to brush his lips to the curve of his jaw before he flees down the halls. 

 

_If I've left Al-Sarmen and I'm going to die within the near future, I'm going to spend my last few hours doing something that might possibly be enjoyable._

 

There's a nervous, twisting giddiness in his stomach at the thought of that. Something _enjoyable_ \--really, the train of thought is so odd that it makes his head spin a bit, but that's soon replaced with the too-fast beating of his heart when he reaches the room Sinbad's been granting, knocking on the door before he can talk himself out of it. 

 

A moment later, Sinbad opens the door, shirtless and barefoot, trousers unfastened and obviously in the state of stripping them off too. The room is unlit and cold, and apart from Sinbad, empty. His eyes land on Ja’far, and he swallows hard, an unmistakable audible hitch of breath. “Should you be here?”

 

Ja'far hesitates again, and he briefly peers around Sinbad, concern winning out for a sparse second to ask: "Where's Judal?" 

 

“He wanted to be a dashing rogue for the night,” Sinbad says, with a little grin. “I saw him tucked in with a couple redheaded harem girls, talking about all the ships he’s conquered. He’s fine, I set Spartos to make sure no one goes in or out that isn't supposed to."

 

That makes Ja'far relax a fraction, though not so much when he's immediately reminded of why he's at Sinbad's door. "Ah…" He exhales slowly. "Then, there's no reason for you to be alone, is there? Masrur is starting a fire back in our room, and I… wanted you to come." 

 

Sinbad swallows hard. He’s suddenly all the more reminded of his current state of (un)dress, and how close Ja’far is, and how nice those lips had felt against his…. “Did--” he stops, clearing his throat. “Did you ask Masrur?”

 

"Do you take me for a fool? Of course I did." Ja'far's own breath hitches a bit, his hands suddenly itching to slide against Sinbad's chest, to peel his trousers off the rest of the way and-- _no, back in the room, it's better with an audience, besides_. His eyes shut briefly. "It's not… awkward for you, is it? Masrur didn't seem to mind, but I know you're a little… protective of him." 

 

Sinbad snorts. “Unless you want me to bend him over, no, it’s not awkward. He’s seen me do far worse, and I him. I just….” _I don’t want to take the one thing he’s ever had for himself._

 

But Ja’far isn’t a thing. He’s a person, one that’s inviting him to what sounds like a hell of a lot better evening than laying there alone touching himself and imagining it’s Ja’far. 

 

Not that he would have.

 

“Yeah. Let’s go.”

 

 _It's better with someone watching_ , Ja'far reminds himself, but that still doesn't quite stop him from lurching forward to grab at handfuls of Sinbad's hair and kiss him once more, even if it's just for a moment. The man's _mouth_ is even hotter than the rest of him, and Ja'far sucks on his lower lip with a low, rumbling groan in the back of his throat. 

 

Well if Ja’far isn’t going to play _fair_ \--

 

Sinbad fills his hands with Ja’far’s back and ass, squeezing, yanking him close, mouth hot and bruising on the younger man’s, biting his lip, his tongue, tasting blood. He can’t quite help the surge of lust that wells up, and he shoves Ja’far back against the nearest wall, a hungry growl in his throat, only remembering to pull away at the last second. “Hurry,” he breathes, moving to nip at Ja’far’s ear, “or I won’t be able to wait.”

 

Ja'far's chest heaves, and he tries to remember what it's like to breathe normally--or to walk, even. 

 

He manages a shaky nod, and grabs at Sinbad's hand mindlessly, firmly pulling him along once his legs decide to work again. He fumbles with the bedroom door for all of a second before practically falling in, swallowing hard, his eyes hungry as they land on Masrur as well. "I really don't care how it happens," he rasps out, "but I want both of you. At the same time." 

 

Masrur nods, and Sinbad grabs Ja’far from behind, mouthing hot, nipping, sucking, biting kisses along the pale column of his neck, yanking him back to feel how hard Sinbad is in his trousers already, rubbing hard and eager up against his ass. “Can you even take him in your mouth?” Sinbad breathes, shoving a hand down the front of Ja’far’s pants, long fingers curling around his cock and stroking him slowly from base to tip. “I bet you can take me if you work at it, and I’ve seen you take him back here.”

 

The shudder that goes through him makes his knees nearly buckle, and it's only by virtue of reaching out, grabbing for Masrur's chest and scrabbling for support that he doesn't hit the ground. "Can't t-take him in my mouth… and I want him inside of me. All the way. So…" Ja'far swallows, his hips twitching forward at the very thought, the rough, calloused drag of Sinbad's palm against him making him that much harder, and he _already_ aches, just feeling the grind of Sinbad's cock against his ass. _He's_ big, too. Of course he is. Of _course_. "Let me suck your cock." He doesn't beg. He's not going to beg. The _please_ is still nearly audible, all the same.

 

At Sinbad’s nod, Masrur’s large hands pick Ja’far up by the waist, setting him down on his hands and knees as if he weighs nothing at all. He pauses, brushing a few fingers down Ja’far’s cheek, an affectionate little gesture before he abandons that end to Sinbad, switching places with the Captain. Strong hands unlace trousers, and it’s Masrur now rubbing up behind him, pulling away briefly when Sinbad tosses him something, and coming back slick and hot and ready.

 

Sinbad grabs Ja’far’s chin, forcing his face up as he pulls himself out, letting his trousers fall to the floor and rubbing the head of his cock over swollen lips, making them sticky and wet. “I bet you like sucking cock,” he murmurs, tangling a hand in silky hair. “Show me if you’re any good at it.”

 

It would be a lie to say this all is anything less than a _perfect_ way to make his mind shut up.

 

Dulling out his thoughts is the strong, relentless pound of his pulse, and Ja'far trembles, a shuddering groan choked into the back of his throat when he lurches forward, eyes lidding with the first, slick drag of his tongue over the head of Sinbad's cock. It's less than accurate, messy and sloppy when his hips twitch back to feel the hard, thick line of Masrur's cock, and he can already feel his body _twinge_ , aching just in reminder of how it feels to be stretched so wide, stuffed so _full_ of every inch of him. 

 

Having his mouth stuffed full at the same time is going to be a bonus. Ja'far pants out a hot breath, shifting his weight onto one hand as he reaches desperately up with the other, grabbing at Sinbad's cock, sucking the head of it into his mouth with an eager, whining sound at the first, hot slide of it further over his tongue.

 

Sinbad’s mind shorts out at the first wet swipe of Ja’far’s tongue, and ah, if he’s not mistaken, Ja’far _likes_ being used hard. A twitch of his head is all it takes to tell Masrur to wait, not yet, not _quite_. 

 

Then he fists both his hands in Ja’far’s hair, pulling _tight_. “I bet you want to be stuffed full everywhere, don’t you?” he murmurs, voice a soft counterpart to the yank on his hair. “Well. You’ll like this, then.”

 

He nods, and thrusts forward, rubbing his cock against Ja’far’s tongue for a split second before shoving down his throat, hands gripping iron-tight in his hair, yanking his head wherever Sinbad wants it.

 

At the same time on Sinbad’s nod, Masrur shoves forward, narrowing his eyes until the thick head of his cock squeezes inside, followed too-fast by the rest of him, spreading Ja’far open as wide as he can go.

 

If there's anything left of his coherent mind, it shuts up. 

 

Ja'far chokes, gagging hard around the cock shoved down his throat, his eyes wide and pricking sharply with tears. Maybe, _maybe_ he would have been able to control the reaction a bit more, but there's no helping it when the rest of his body _sags_ , little more than a twitching, trembling thing wrapped around Masrur's cock when it shoves inside, muscles spasming, clenching tight around him as he struggles to just _take him_. Like this, it feels like he's deeper than he's ever been, and Ja'far's eyes roll back when his hips jerk back on their own accord, grinding his ass against the cock spreading him so wide that his knees slide further apart on the floor to try and make it _easier_. 

 

It doesn't work.

 

The breath he draws in through his nose is labored at best, and Ja'far's broken, weak little groans are effectively muffled as he looks up, face flushed and lips spread wide about Sinbad's cock, slick with drool that he can't _stop_.

 

“You _do_ like it.”

 

Sinbad’s voice is husky, low and delighted, and his hands only tighten more in Ja’far’s hair. “Look at him, Masrur. He’s shoving back for more, like he can take more.”

 

“He can. Maybe.”

 

Sinbad looks down, and the sight of Ja’far’s mouth stretched so wide, drool spilling from his mouth to mingle with the tears running down his face as he gags, almost makes Sinbad lose it right there. “Try,” he breathes, and hears the slap of flesh on flesh as Masrur thrusts in hard, always obedient. “I can ask him to be more gentle if you want,” he murmurs, thumbing away one of Ja’far’s tears, “but I don’t think you want that. I think you want this.”

 

He thrusts in, holding Ja’far there, feeling the man’s nose against his belly, feeling him choke and gag, desperate for air, and holds him there for another long moment before releasing him.

 

Ja'far _wobbles_ , his hands scrabbling at the floor as he moans around Sinbad's cock, every muscle twitching, jerking taut with the thrust of Masrur's hips. Certainly, that's harder than the man has allowed himself to fuck him before--or at least, it's a lot more a lot _faster_ , and it makes Masrur feel even bigger inside of him, filling him until Ja'far feels him press and grind into all the right places, no matter how he _aches_ at being so full.

 

Gagging, sucking sloppily on Sinbad's cock, with the captain so _sure_ of what he wants--he'd beg, if Sinbad let him up for an instant. Better that he doesn't, better that he's shoved down until he can't breathe, moaning around Sinbad and trying to shove his own head back down, nuzzling into his belly no matter how his throat protests and his eyes roll back. His own cock drips and twitches, and Ja'far _whines_ , high and desperate no matter how it's muffled, coming all over himself too fast, too soon, knowing they both must think he's the _worst_ kind of whore now, and god, that just makes him come even harder.

 

Sinbad likes when he’s _right_ about Ja’far for a change.

 

“Harder,” he breathes to Masrur, yanking Ja’far’s face down. “He likes it, look how much he likes it.” 

 

He pulls out, rubbing the sticky head of his cock over Ja’far’s cheek, smearing his face with it as he murmurs, “You do, don’t you? Coming all over yourself after a few minutes--you really like being shoved between strong men and used, don’t you?”

 

He shoves his cock back in before Ja’far can say anything, holding his hips still and using Ja’far’s head, yanking him down over and over, forcing his cock into the back of the younger man’s throat. “Maybe we should trade places after all, and Masrur can force you to take him in your mouth. He will, if I tell him how. Watch.”

 

To Masrur, he says, “You can grab his hips harder.” He closes his hands over Masrur’s, tightens them until Masrur gets the hang of the pressure, and abruptly Masrur grabs Ja’far’s hips hard enough to bruise, yanking him back onto every thrust, getting faster, more ragged with every pounding motion.

 

Never, _ever_ has Ja'far felt so used.

 

He might as well be bound for how helpless he feels, as limp and trembling as a doll between the two of them, his body yanked down onto Masrur's cock, his mouth used as little more than a hole for Sinbad to fuck. His legs spread helplessly, desperately wider, every thrust making him groan weakly around Sinbad's cock, and he _thinks_ he tries to nod, to agree with every word that Sinbad says as he swallows hard around him, lips and jaw aching, face slick and sticky and the rest of his shivering body no better. Even the _thought_ of Masrur trying to shove his cock into his mouth no matter his protests is too much--the off-chance it somehow fit, just the head dripping over his tongue, making his eyes tear and his lips all the more bruised and swollen from the effort while Sinbad fucks him-- _yes, yes, yes, use me, fuck me, just let me be your toy_ \--

 

Sinbad should probably control himself.

 

This could get out of hand, _fast_.

 

But that’s why he’s here, and there’s a sort of wild joy on Masrur’s face that he’s never seen before (thankfully), that he doubts even Ja’far really has. And a single look down at Ja’far--

 

Yeah, this isn’t going to last.

 

Sinbad’s hands are too tight by far in Ja’far’s hair when he wrenches the man’s head back, forcing his back into a tight bow as Masrur thrusts in _hard_. One hand stays in Ja’far’s hair, the other wraps around his own cock, stroking fast and squeezing hard, and in less than five seconds he loses himself, spilling hot and messy over Ja’far’s face, painting his pretty freckles with an almighty groan. “Lick,” he pants, “it up. Then….then beg.”

 

Ja'far obeys without thinking, his breath coming in sobbing, hitching groans as he lurches forward with what little strength he has left, sucking, lapping at Sinbad's cock, his tongue running over his own lips at what drips down to them. " _Please_ ," he rasps out, voice hoarse and ragged, his eyes glazed and unfocused. There's a border of pleasure and pain, and his nerves twitch and twinge as they tumble around it, something that leaves him sagging and broken, the hands in his hair and the cock buried deep into his ass the only things holding him up. "Please, _please_ , I c-can't--"

 

Sinbad nods, and with a kind of synchronicity he’d never noticed before with Masrur, the big man lets out a moan, lurching forward, driving Ja’far into Sinbad’s hold as he floods Ja’far, spilling hot and deep inside him, hips finally slowing to a stop. 

 

Sinbad kneels in front of Ja’far, licking up the side of his face, then closing his lips hard over Ja’far’s, the taste of himself on the other man’s tongue intoxicating, obscenely lewd. He pulls away after a minute, golden eyes dark. “Are you done?” he asks quietly, hands gentle now on the other man’s shoulders. _I don’t know your limits, and already I want to push them. You really are dangerous._

 

Ja'far's breath comes out as a sort of ragged, broken wheeze, and he less than gracefully slumps forward, chin hooking over Sinbad's shoulder as he shudders. "J…just… just give me… second…" That comes out as mostly coherent, doesn't it? He prides himself on that fact, when he feels so spread open, fucked out and _used_ , so slick inside that it's obscene, and god, he doesn't even want to know what his face looks like, flushed and sweaty and _sticky_. 

 

Sinbad lifts the younger man easily off Masrur’s cock, trying not to make a face at the sudden slippery drip onto his leg, and lays Ja’far down on the bed, flopping down himself. “Was I too rough? I didn’t know I was so _tense_ , god.”

 

Ja'far makes a sort of languid, mindless grabbing motion in Masrur's direction, somehow managing to squish himself closer to Sinbad so there's more room. So much for the captain sleeping on the floor or elsewhere. "N-no, 's fine." What are words? Is this how Masrur feels most of the time? "Really needed that," he adds in a mumble, eyes fluttering. 

 

Masrur lays down cautiously on the bed, but it doesn’t break, and he scoots in so he’s comfortable, Ja’far squashed firmly between the other two men. “You’re all right?”

 

"Told you that you don't have to be so careful all the time," Ja'far murmurs, letting his head loll back into Masrur's chest. "More than fine. Really good." Whether or not he walks in the morning remains to be seen, but that's beside the point.

 

Sinbad lets his arm flop across Ja’far’s stomach, and a bit of Masrur’s as well, nuzzling his face into Ja’far’s hair. “Welcome to the _Sindria_.” 

 

Not ten seconds later, he’s asleep.

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

Being asleep on dry land always wakes him, sooner or later. Sinbad finds he misses the rocking of the ocean, the gentle back-and-forth, and it makes him move too much in his sleep.

 

He moves now, and encounters an unfamiliar body--ah, Ja’far. That’s right. A lazy grin curls Sinbad’s lips before he opens his eyes, and a fumble with his hand finds Masrur gone, no doubt practicing his martial arts before dawn as usual whenever they’re somewhere he can properly use his legs. That’s fine, it means more room in the bed, and a low, throbbing pressure makes Sinbad let out a pleased little noise, Ja’far’s leg pressing against his cock, making him hard even in his sleep.

 

Well.

 

He rolls over, easing his cock forward between Ja’far’s thighs, sliding easily between them in and out, in and out, mouthing a kiss against a freckled shoulder. _Just don’t wake up pissy._

 

Ja'far stirs, though it's slower, more languid than it should be, more than likely courtesy of the soreness that spreads over nearly every inch of his body. The warmth of breath against his neck, the slickness of a mouth against his shoulder--that's all nice enough, but what _truly_ wakes him is the slide of something hard between his thighs. 

 

Not Masrur. _Sinbad_.

 

The heat that washes over him in a sparse second is enough to make him muffle a sigh into a pillow, a shiver making his thighs squeeze around Sinbad's cock as his legs press together. "Good morning to you, too," he manages to groan.

 

Sinbad raises up onto his elbows, not quite able to stop himself from brushing a kiss over Ja’far’s freckled nose, then briefly over his lips. “Good morning. Want me to stop?”

 

"… Do you make a habit of things like this?" Ja'far has to ask, a weary sort of amusement passing over his face as his nose wrinkles in mild protest. "No, you don't have to stop. My thighs, though--really? I thought _you'd_ just go ahead and put it in." 

 

“Thought you might be sore. This is nice, too,” Sinbad murmurs, burying his face again in Ja’far’s neck with a slow, nibbling suck, hips moving in an easy roll, the press of Ja’far’s thighs getting slicker with every movement. “Soft. Full. Mm.”

 

He shouldn't be getting hard just from Sinbad fucking his thighs like he's something to _savor,_ but there's no helping it. Ja'far shivers, twisting back as he presses his legs tight together, enjoying in spite of himself how thick and hard Sinbad feels between them, gliding slick and hot over his skin. "Definitely sore," he breathes, and just the thought of it sends a twinge up through him. "Shouldn't… let that stop you, next time. Any time."

 

“Mm, it’s not stopping me now.” Lazy and slow it might be, but Sinbad loves every slick slide, every drag of soft skin (broken up by those _fascinating_ scars) on his cock, especially now that Ja’far’s squeezing tight around him like he _likes_ the feel of this. “I just….mmm, there are so many nice parts of you to use, shame to focus on just one when all of you is so pretty.”

 

Ja'far's teeth sink down into his lower lip, muffling another, hitching moan as he slowly ruts back, his own cock twitching with every slide of Sinbad against him now. "Not sure about that," he gasps out, eyes fluttering. _But I guess if you want to put your cock all over me, that's fine, right now._

 

“I thought you were going to trust me now.” Sinbad’s voice is light and teasing, and he slides _up_ this time, rubbing against Ja’far’s balls as he slides forward, lips and tongue ghosting over the shell of his ear before trailing down to suck, tugging on his earlobe with his teeth. “Trust me, I want to use _all_ of you.”

 

He'd almost forgotten what it was like, having someone that _talked_ so much in bed. Not that Kouen or anyone else made a particular habit of it, but Sinbad seems to make it into an _art_ , something that makes him shudder down to his toes--curling, now, what with how the man's cock rubs against him and makes him wriggle down for more. "… Bite," he manages to rasp, and he slides a hand down, fingers dragging over the head of Sinbad's cock when it thrusts between his thighs. He has god knows how many bruises. Why not add a few more?

 

Sinbad obeys, setting his teeth with a low growl into the pale flesh of Ja’far’s throat, nibbling and biting _hard_ , enough to bruise and enough to bring just the hint of the tang of blood onto his tongue. “I wonder which you like more,” he breathes, shoving up hard into Ja’far’s hand, one hand on his stomach to bring him back. “The pain of it? Or the thought of walking around tomorrow, everyone seeing what a whore you are between the sheets?”

 

Ja'far _writhes_ , that soreness all the more obvious when he squirms and wriggles against Sinbad's hold, his head rolling back to give the man all the access in the world to his bared throat. "B-both," he breathlessly admits, skin flushing with the admission as his body clenches, fingers rubbing slick and eager against the tip of Sinbad's cock, coming away slick before he lifts them to his own mouth. "Want you in me," he groans, sucking one finger clean as his thighs squeeze with each slide of Sinbad's hips. "Use me again."

 

“Whore,” Sinbad breathes, in a far different tone than he’s used in the past. He slides out from between Ja’far’s thighs, sliding _up_ instead, and groans when the head of his cock catches on that hole. He swears he can feel how red and swollen he is, and-- “You’re still all slippery inside,” he groans, and that’s enough to make him forget everything else, hands digging into bruised hips as he slides in, teeth nipping hard at the side of Ja’far’s neck.

 

The broken noise that pulls from Ja'far's throat is low and deep and _satisfied,_ his back arching as he humps back, twisting to try and dig a foot into the bed and better writhe back onto Sinbad's cock. God, Sinbad feels good inside, no matter how Ja'far's body twitches and clenches in protest, as sore and aching as he is. " _Fuck me_ ," he pants out, hot and eager, a hand scrabbling back to slide over Sinbad's hip, further down to his ass to squeeze and coax him _deeper._

 

Sinbad stills for a moment, squeezing a hand tightly around the base of his cock until he’s got some semblance of control back, just for a few minutes. He rolls them over, getting Ja’far down onto his belly, holding him down hard and sliding in _deep_. “Spread your legs, slut,” he says, a ragged moan into Ja’far’s ear. “Wide as you can, show me how much you love getting fucked hard.”

 

Ja'far feels his body _twitch_ , and his mouth falls open, all the noises he wants to make choked there when he's suddenly so _full_ , pinned beneath someone solid and heavy and _hard_. As sore and used as he already is, it's almost too much, an edge of pain that makes his eyes roll back, set off by the rub of his too-hard cock into the sheets as he struggles to do as he's told, his legs trembling as they splay wide, toes curled and fingers flexing white-knuckled into the sheets. "C…can't spread them any wider--so please--"

 

“Shhh,” Sinbad murmurs, with a sharp nip to accompany the words. “Perfect, just hold them there while I use you--god, you look like such a filthy whore, you make me want to fuck you stupid--”

 

It’s too _much_ , and he snakes a hand around, curling around Ja’far’s cock, stroking in time with his thrusts. “Such a pretty slut, come all over my hand, let me see how much you like my cock in you--”

 

He _feels_ like a whore, stuffed this full of cock with little more to do but writhe. As oversensitive as he is, as much as he _hurts_ , Sinbad's hand is enough to make him sob, his hips mindlessly rutting down into the other man's calloused grip.

 

And that's all it takes, really. Ja'far strangles a whimper, his teeth sinking into the sheets, and he spills over Sinbad's hand, his body a weak, clenching thing around him.

 

Sinbad’s eyes slide shut, and he thrusts in hard, ragged, almost savage now, the sweet tight clench of Ja’far’s shuddering body too much for him. “Tell me where you want it,” he breathes, hands far too tight on those full hips, slamming down hard with every motion. “In you? On you? Where, slut?”

 

Ja'far swallows hard and shaky, not even sure himself when both sound so _good_ right then. "… O-on me." His face flames, and he huffs out a ragged breath into the pillows. "Come on me, on my ass and thighs, l…like you're marking me."

 

Sinbad hears him, _barely_ , over the pounding of his own pulse, wrenching back at the last second, spurting hot and thick over the supple skin of Ja’far’s ass, the back of his thighs, and god, he looks _lewd_ like that. “Obscene,” he mutters, dragging a finger down through the mess, trying to catch his breath when everything is _spinning_. “Next time I should spank you.”

 

"Shut _up_ ," is the groan that Ja'far manages when his body twitches weakly, eager at just the sound of that idea even when he's already a sticky mess first thing in the morning. "Or I'm going to make you do it. Don't have the endurance for this." 

 

Sinbad laughs wearily, flopping down to his side. “Give me…” He looks down, judging his own relative limpness. “Five minutes, and I’m good to go. Masrur’ll be gone for at least an hour, not that I think he’d mind finding us rutting like this when he comes back.”

 

"Told you he doesn't care. He can just join in." Ja'far doesn't bother moving, and instead shoves his face down into a pillow. "I need to bathe." He doesn't bother mentioning that he definitely can't walk.

 

“Why bathe when I’m just going to make you all sticky again? Unless…” Sinbad grins. “Balbadd has some _gorgeous_ bathhouses. The Palace’s private ones in particular are excellent.”

 

"That requires moving a great distance, doesn't it?" Ja'far lifts his head enough to blow a sweat-soaked strand of hair from his face. 

 

Sinbad raises an eyebrow. “Is that a roundabout way of asking me to carry you?”

 

"Do I _look_ capable of moving?" 

 

“Mmm, with an attitude like that you can lay there sticky all day.”

 

Ja'far huffs, flopping his head back down. "I'll just ask Masrur, then. He's far kinder."

 

“You didn’t _ask_ me at all,” Sinbad points out. “You told me you were incapable of moving, then made a mean face.”

 

"Maybe you should learn to interpret and appreciate that accordingly."

 

“Be careful,” Sinbad half-growls. “Five minutes are almost up. I owe you a spanking.”

 

"Sounds awful," Ja'far drawls, stretching with a long, wincing sigh. "I _definitely_ wouldn't want you to do that at all."

 

Sinbad rolls lazily onto his elbows, straightening up a bit. “You have quite a bit to answer for, you know,” he says, sitting up and leaning back against the headboard. “Get over here, lay across my lap.”

 

It takes _effort_ to move, though damned if the thought of it all isn't worth it. Ja'far flops across Sinbad's lap with a shiver, and once he's there, he wonders why he ever thought moving was a good idea at all. Staying here and letting Sinbad do what he wants to him is a far better plan.

 

Sinbad runs long, strong fingers through Ja’far’s hair, brushing it back from his face. “You’ve done a lot worthy of punishment, I think,” he muses, rubbing his other hand over the curve of that supple ass. “Mmm, you’re still sticky back here from last night, how filthy of you.” His hand draws back, then lightly touches down, not even a tap. “What do you think you deserve?”

 

Ja'far is coming to realize that he likes Sinbad _talking_ a little too much, if how his body twitches and stirs is any indication. That's not fair, not when he's already come so fast and so hard, and he muffles a groan into the back of one arm as he lets his head slump forward. "I… I don't _know_." 

 

“You don’t know? Mmm, you’re wriggling around like you know.” Sinbad reaches a hand back, dipping one finger between Ja’far’s cheeks, rubbing the edge of that sore, abused, leaking hole. “I’m sure you can think of something you should be punished for.”

 

It's obscene how his body _clenches_ , half in protest and half in _want_. "Maybe the list is too long," Ja'far groans, bowing his head. "J-just _hit me._ "

 

Sinbad lets fly, cracking down _hard_ on Ja’far’s ass before a whisper of air even registers. “That,” he says cheerfully, “is for lying. You told me you _never_ beg.”

 

The breath is stolen out of him, and Ja'far clenches his teeth to keep back a _whine_. "I…" He swallows, shuddering, the _sting_ of his skin making him squirm against Sinbad's thigh. "I don't… make a _habit_ of it--" _God, hit me harder._

 

“The next...hmm, ten,” Sinbad muses, “are for being a stowaway.” His hand cracks down hard enough that it hurts his _hand_ , and he angles the blows, grinning when he feels firm flesh _jiggle_.

 

As if he wasn't going to be sore _enough_ , there's this.

 

Ja'far chokes on a whine, shuddering with every crack of Sinbad's hand against his flesh as his hands twitch, curling white-knuckled into the sheets. It _hurts_ , a sting and ache that seems to go straight to his cock, and he bites his lip to keep back a moan, hips rocking helplessly, needily down.

 

Sinbad leans down, brushing sweat-soaked hair out of Ja’far’s face, and murmurs into his ear, “How many do you think I should give you for rutting against my thigh like a whore just from being slapped around?”

 

Sinbad's _voice_ , Ja'far dazedly confirms, is the most unfair thing of them all. It sends a quivering little shake down his spine, making his toes curl and his cock harden all the more as his hips grind forward. "Depends…" He swallows. "Depends on how much I have to _sit_ later." 

 

Sinbad laughs, low and rich, and rubs his hand not-too-gently over Ja’far’s burning ass, feeling the heat of the abused flesh. “We’ll stay here another two days, I think. And I don’t care if you spend the whole rest of the trip laying on your stomach, legs spread and waiting to be used. How many?”

 

"… Until your hand starts hurting." It's bad that everything out of Sinbad's mouth just serves to make him harder, and Ja'far squirms, letting his cock slide against the muscle of Sinbad's thigh a bit harder. 

 

Sinbad’s laugh isn’t exactly kind, but low, dark, and infinitely amused. “My pain tolerance is _high_ ,” he warns, and ten, twenty hard slaps later, leans down to Ja’far’s ear. “You can rut against my leg,” he says in a husk of a voice, almost a purr. “I know you’re so hard you can’t even think right now, just act like the base animal you are.”

 

The _problem_ , Ja'far thinks through the pounding of his own pulse, the _throb_ of his cock that makes his mind blissfully click off again, is that his pain tolerance is even _higher._

 

He likes being granted permission. No matter how he shakes and aches and trembles, his skin burning and _hurting_ , his cock is still hard, leaking against Sinbad's thigh as he groans, hips twisting and grinding down against it. "C… can you…" He's never been shy about asking for his indulgences, but it's the fact he's so _hard_ that makes it difficult for him to even speak. "Can you just… pull my hair, when you're doing that?" he gasps, his eyes fluttering. "O-only thing… it's good for, when it's this long--"

 

The hand not viciously slapping down against Ja’far’s ass comes up to thread in silky moonlight hair, yanking hard, exactly hard enough to _burn_ without yanking his hairs out of his head. “Like that?” Sinbad croons, eyes alight with pleasure at Ja’far leaking and thrusting weakly against his leg. “Maybe I shouldn’t let you come. Maybe I should make you stay hard like that until you get me off again, or tie you to the bed to thrash around all day.”

 

The idea shouldn't be so _appealing_. 

 

Ja'far's throat bobs, tears pricking in his eyes as his hips wriggle down, the aching slide of his cock almost _nothing_ compared to the slap of Sinbad's hand, the hard yank on his hair that makes every nerve tingle. "Please," he hoarsely tries, eyes squeezing shut as his hips roll in a desperate squirm. "Please let me come, I _need_ to--"

 

“Begging again?” Sinbad tuts, bringing down his hand with every click of his tongue. “And here I thought you weren’t going to make a _habit_ of it.” He’s as hard now as he can ever remember being, pressed against Ja’far’s belly as the younger man squirms desperately around, and after so many weeks of frustration he can’t deny it feels _good_ to let loose on Ja’far. “Fine. Show me how much of a slut you are, come all over yourself.”

 

Ja'far doesn't need to be told twice.

 

He already feels weak and used and _spent_ , but he comes hard all the same, shuddering and squirming and rutting in desperate jerks against Sinbad's thigh. It's hardly _fair_ , being used this thoroughly, and Ja'far is hardpressed to remember a time that he ever _has been_. 

 

Sinbad’s laugh this time is infinitely less dark, more of a chuckle, and he rests his hand on the burning skin, murmuring, “You all right? That sounded like a big one.”

 

"I'm going to die," is the moan to follow, and Ja'far slumps down, a lingering _twinge_ making him shudder anew. 

 

Sinbad doesn’t really _mean_ to, but he finds himself sort of petting the man anyway, fingers gently threading through his hair, running soothingly up and down his back. “You’ll be all right. Just rest, we have plenty of time.”

 

"Coming from the man that's so hard that you're going to dig a hole into my hip," Ja'far huffs out, his next shiver a pleasant one all the same, liking the drag of Sinbad's fingers perhaps too much. 

 

“Mmm, don’t worry about that. I can always take care of myself.” Sinbad smiles, enjoying the contrast of warm and cool flesh under his fingers, feeling the shivers slow. “I’d always rather not be a burden on my bedmates. Just rest, I can take care of this later.”

 

"It's not… a burden." Ja'far's face flushes, and he sinks down, letting his muscles simply give up on supporting himself in any way. "You've been driving me insane since that night with the age guessing game. At least take some responsibility." 

 

Sinbad raises an eyebrow. “Ohh? You liked hearing about how I’d throw you down and make you beg?” He strokes a hand down Ja’far’s cheek. “I already did that, though. What else do you want?”

 

"… Don't even know," is the assassin's admission as his head flops down with a groan. "You're right. I give up." 

 

Sinbad grins, wrapping his hand around himself and starting to stroke languidly. “Just lie there looking debauched. That’s enough for me.”

 

Oh.

 

Well, _that_ shouldn't make him shiver all over again. 

 

 _This is unsafe_ , Ja'far hazily tells himself. Unsafe on a dozen levels, that he _enjoys_ this so much. Just the slick sound of Sinbad's hand dragging over his own cock is enough to make him squirm a bit, even. "… You can come on my face again, if you want." He probably is a whore.

 

“Like this….if I wanted to, you wouldn’t be able to stop me.” Ah, Sinbad shouldn’t harden so much in his own grip, and it won’t be long now, not with sticky trails all over the other man, not with his hair in disarray, his body sore and abused, still begging for more. “Over here. Open your mouth.”

 

It hurts to move, just to shift and rearrange himself so that his face is closer to Sinbad's cock. _Everything_ stings and aches, and Ja'far still almost steals a hand down between his own legs, that one, simple order enough to make his body think it's _capable_ of going on for a bit longer. With a slow shudder, he obediently does as he's told, lips parted and waiting. 

 

That’s all it takes, and Sinbad groans, spilling hot and wet over Ja’far’s face, especially over his lips, one hand coming up to hold Ja’far’s head in place and winding up just smearing over his _mess_ instead. “Good,” he groans, then collapses back onto the bed. “God.”

 

Ja'far chokes a bit, the taste heavy on his tongue as he swallows what drips into his mouth, and lifts a hand afterwards to swipe over his face. "… Really thinking that bath will be good here soon," he manages, flopping down in turn, unable to quite move his face from where it ends up pressed to Sinbad's thigh.

 

“Yeah. Bath.” Sinbad’s hand falls onto Ja’far’s head, and it stays there as his eyes slide shut. “Yeah. Soon.”

 

As soon as he wakes up, at any rate.

 

~~

 

Ja'far _does_ manage to slip out and do a bit of shopping, if nothing else. Months ago, he would have thought stocking up on aloe would be the most valuable of his purchases (it's still right up there, considering he can't avoid being on deck entirely), but now, his priorities are a bit elsewhere.

 

It should bother him more, how _nice_ that feels. 

 

He drags Judal along, not trusting the brat to not try and escape with his newly found harem (women, on ships, are apparently bad luck or so says Sinbad). Ja'far regrets it about half-way through, the Magi's _teasing_ starting to grate on his nerves and eventually, he caves in and keeps the wretch preoccupied with a basket of peaches that he thoroughly savors. 

 

"Are those for me?"

 

"They'd hardly suit you." The Banker's effect on the economy is obvious already, if only due to the devaluing of gold. Well, that suits his current purposes nicely.

 

Judal takes it as a compliment, and Ja'far wonders about his own sanity. 

 

Back on the ship, back out to _sea_ , Ja'far finally relaxes a bit more, no matter the customary lurch of his stomach. Being ashore makes him nervous, and Balbadd was the worst of all. Out on the open ocean, it's that much more difficult for Al-Sarmen to track them, and now, that's more important that ever.

 

He pushes those thoughts from his mind, focusing on… other things. _Masrur_ is easy enough to gift. "Sinbad told me it was your birthday," is his simple offer, and it's about as well-received as anything is from Masrur, though Ja'far is starting to notice the subtle changes in the Fanalis's brow or eyes or mouth when he's honestly _pleased_. More awkward, though, is the gift he receives in return--daggers, to replace the ones he's lost at port off and on over the past few months, and Ja'far tucks them away with a quiet, almost-smile.

 

Sinbad, however, is a dozen times more difficult. 

 

_Think of a reason. How difficult can it possibly be?_

 

Ja'far resigns himself to failure, huddles behind a dozen or so books, and works.

 

“There you are!” 

 

Sinbad pulls off his eyepatch (Judal had been so _excited_ ) as he enters the little room, leaning against the bulkhead. “You’ve made yourself so scarce ever since we got back on the ship. Didn’t frighten you back in Balbadd, did I?”

 

In all honesty, Sinbad couldn’t be more pleased that Ja’far is still _here_. He’d had every opportunity to take Judal and hightail it back to Kou--Sinbad had even let them go out together, pretending to be asleep when they left, but they’d come back without complaint. _I was right. He really is one of us now._

 

It shouldn’t be a surprise. He makes a habit, as Ja’far had remarked on more than one occasion, of collecting people. Ah, well, better than commemorative coins.

 

There are only so many places to hide on a ship, after all, and in retrospect, the place where he's usually up to his neck in whatever work is shoved at him generally isn't the best. Ja'far gives a little shrug, slinking back a bit to grab a book from behind himself. "I'm rather difficult to _frighten_. Did you need something? I've just been working." 

 

“You’ve made yourself scarce.” Sinbad isn’t so good at mincing words, so he throws himself into a chair, resting his elbows on Ja’far’s desk. “Or are you just missing Balbadd already?”

 

"God _, no_ ," Ja'far mutters, exasperated as he reaches over to push one of Sinbad's elbows off and snatch a piece of parchment out from underneath. "I couldn't be more glad to be rid of the place." 

 

“Ah. Then this coldness is something else.” Sinbad stands, hesitating. “I preferred that. Your head resting on me while you slept.”

 

"I'm not--" _I'm not being cold._ Maybe he is. Ja'far doesn't really _know_. He visibly hesitates, then heaves a long sigh, sliding a hand down into his pocket. "Sinbad, just… wait a second." 

 

Sinbad flops easily back into the chair, eyebrows raised. This is more of a reaction than he’d been hoping for. “Another pit viper? I had all the stores checked thoroughly…”

 

A pit viper would have been a dozen times more easy to deal with. "… No. I just…" Ja'far's eyes slide sideways, and he pulls out the little finely woven cloth bag into his lap, still out of sight. "I couldn't help but notice--after you destroyed that pirate ship by yourself, your earrings were missing. Did you lose them?" 

 

Sinbad sighs. “I did. Such bad luck! One of them was sliced by a dagger, the other caught on a nail and I had to take it out to get free.” He gives Ja’far a brief smile. “I shouldn’t mind, they were just brass. I’m surprised you noticed.” _They were the last thing I had of my mother’s hand, and I wouldn’t have cared if they were tin._

 

"… It's my job to notice." _Was_ his job. Or is it still? Ja'far isn't quite certain. He hesitates again, fingers curling around the bag before he finally lifts it, sitting it onto the desk. "You look… well, it's sort of strange, not seeing you with them. They're not the same, and they're not brass, but--"

 

It takes Sinbad a long moment to understand what Ja’far is saying, and his hand reaches slowly out, closing over the bag and opening it. Two shining hoop earrings, gold unless he’s truly mistaken, and something in his chest flops over. “I….you didn’t need to do this.”

 

Suddenly suspecting Ja’far will take them back, he snatches them, immediately sticking them into his ears.

 

"Just--don't get them caught on things or otherwise lose them this time," Ja'far mutters, his face burning as he glances aside. That wasn't _so_ difficult. "Also, if your ears start to hurt or tingle a bit, that's just the poison. I'm making sure you become properly immune." 

 

Sinbad ponders that for a moment, then decides to take it as the act of care it almost certainly is. “I’ve never felt safer than in your hands.” After a moment, in a softer tone, he says, “Thank you. I didn’t realize I didn’t feel right without them.”

 

Relief blossoms through his chest, and Ja'far tries not to visibly sag. He's not sure if he's successful. "You're welcome. I… just don't tell Judal that I'm the one that gave them to you, if you would. He'll never shut up."

 

“Ah, not to worry.” Sinbad smiles, leaning forward to squeeze Ja’far’s hand. “This can just be between us.”

 

That's good. Very good. Sinbad's crew probably didn't even notice their absence, anyway. Ja'far nods, relieved, his fingers slowly curling within Sinbad's grasp. 

 

Sinbad’s gratitude lasts until that night, when he excuses himself from bed with a forced smile to curl up on the deck whimpering in pain and clutching at his earlobes, sort of afraid of what will happen if he takes them out.

 

~~

 

After another week at sea, and for once, Judal doesn't sleep well. 

 

Perhaps more odd is the fact that he rolls his way out of Sinbad's bed in the middle of the night, taking most of the blankets with him, and ends up on the deck in the morning, a shivering, restless pile that can't quite remember what happened. After a few nights of this, Ja'far can't help but suspect the brat is coming down with a fever of sorts, and keeping him from the cold night air becomes a necessity. 

 

"I'm not sick," Judal grumbles, batting away Ja'far's attempts to shove herbs down his throat. "Just can't sleep. Wind feels weird."

 

"Weird? As in a storm coming?" Ja'far attempts, and when Judal shrugs, the (ex-)assassin summons Masrur with a wave of his hand to restrain the Magi while Ja'far medicates him whether he likes it or not.

 

It probably is a storm, Ja'far thinks, when a few days later, some sort of chaos breaks out on deck. All he hears is the running and murmuring from within the cabin he works, and curious--more paranoid, to be precise--he slips out, eyebrows arching at the sight of what _appears_ to be a redheaded woman, collapsed on the deck… and rather scantily clad in the tatters of her robes, at that. 

 

Sinbad leaps down from the rigging in a second, wiping the sweat from his brow with one hand. The wind has been strange all day, whipping about in odd patterns that make so little sense they _have_ to be magic, and magic or not, they wreak havoc on his sails. 

 

And now a strange, lovely, mostly naked woman shows up on deck.

 

Sinbad’s conviction that it’s _bad_ magic wavers, just slightly. “You seem to be in distress,” he calls, eyes wary though his voice is friendly. “How may my crew and I assist you, milady?”

 

The woman slowly pushes herself up, clinging to the wooden staff of her wand as she stares up at Sinbad with a pair of wide, blue eyes. "You're not… you're not _pirates_ , are you?" 

 

Innocent-acting she may be, Ja'far quietly steps closer all the same--at least, before a gust of wind quite nearly sweeps him sideways off the damned ship. _God_ , he hates the ocean.

 

“Honest sailors, milady,” Sinbad says, though everyone knows there’s little difference. “No man on my ship will harm an innocent maiden, that I swear.” He walks closer, offering his hand. “May I ask how you came to be here? A magician, I gather?”

 

A moment's hesitation, and she nods, reaching out to take Sinbad's hand. "I was heading north when this horrible storm came out of nowhere, and I tried to outrun it by going this way, but… the trip is so much longer and it seems my magoi has nearly run out--" A gust of wind just happens to blow her forward, directly into Sinbad's chest… to which she doesn't seem _terribly_ upset about, besides a rather deep blush.

 

Sinbad’s arms catch the woman’s elbows, helping her stand upright. Not that she isn’t comely, but something is clearly, obviously _off_ about the whole thing. If only there were some proof that she were behind it, rather than simply in the way…

 

“You have our hospitality,” he says, because really, there’s nothing else to say. “Sharrkan! Return to port, we have a passenger to drop off.” He turns back to the woman, giving a disarming smile. “Captain Sinbad of the _Sindria_ , at your service. May I have the honor of you name?”

 

"Arij." Her eyes flutter when she lays a hand upon his shoulder. "It's an honor to finally meet you, _Captain_."

 

No sooner than is her name uttered does Ja'far _know_ something is very, very wrong. Not only is it _familiar_ (even though he's never quite heard it, it still rings like something known), but it's her perfume--sharp and cloying, seated within recent memory, even, and he moves, accounting for the wind when his blade cuts through the air, wires snaring around her wrist to wrench it from Sinbad's shoulder. "Don't touch him, witch."

 

"Ahh, rude! That's _very_ convincing, Ja'far," the woman sighs, frowning at the blood trickling from her wrist where his wires cut in. "That's unnecessary, though. You've done enough work, no need to keep pretending."

 

Ja'far's pulse pounds in his ears. "Who--"

 

"You don't recognize me? That won't do." In an instant, she's taller, soft curves rounding out her form, with blonde curls easily dipping to her hips. "I counted every last dagger you left for us when I caught up with you in Balbadd, such a good boy," Arij sighs, and Ja'far's mind flashes to the hands on his thighs, the annoying blonde harem girl that wouldn't go _away_ until seemingly scared off by his daggers--too few, after losing one at what seemed to be every other port."My services weren't even needed. You did all the work for me." Her gaze slides to Sinbad, vaguely amused, and her staff changes as well to a wood more twisted and gnarled. "You might know me better as The Huntress. I've followed at your heels for some time, and my, what a view it is." 

 

Power gathers around Sinbad, not just at his hands, but behind him, as Sharrkan, Spartos and Masrur activate their metal vessels. “You have three seconds,” Sinbad says quietly, and a piece of jewelry flashes to life, feathers sprouting from his skin, “to remove your foul presence from my ship, or I will end what is left of you.”

 

The Huntress merely smiles, yanking her arm free with a burst of her own magic. "It was _lovely_ meeting you. You've outdone yourself this time, Assassin!" she calls down as she hops onto her wand, immediately spiraling upward. "Our Father can't wait to reward you! It's good that you never acted on your other assignment to kill him--we've decided we want Sinbad to stay alive after all." 

 

The moment she disappears, the wind increases to a sharp gale, twisting 'round and making the ship lurch on the rapidly churning sea. In the next second, Ja'far dimly registers Judal's presence, the Magi emerging to latch firmly to his hip, mumbling something about _headaches and sick and what was all of that and black rukh_ , all while his own mind tries to retrace his steps.

 

Did he really lead her-- _Al-Sarmen_ here?

 

He can't remember it. He knows, though, that there's no thief alive that can wrest a dagger from his person, no way he'd be _careless_ enough to leave one behind more than once, so why did he keep _doing it?_ The cold realization, the wriggling, slimy little reminder that _you did this because you can't get away from them, because they're always there, telling you to find your way back_ slides up sharp and real, and Ja'far barely thinks to grab onto the railing when the ship rocks again, his own head spinning. 

 

Her words click a second too late, and Sinbad doesn’t let Focalor’s presence slip from his body even when Arij whirls out of sight, vanishing in a dervish of black rukh. He doesn’t want to turn on Ja’far--the thought that he could be so, so wrong about someone churns his stomach, and his eyes burn. 

 

He opens his mouth, but the ship rocks hard, and a sick, grinding sound comes from below, the sound of timbers being wrenched apart going straight to his chest. “Below, below! Break deep!” 

 

The vibrations of the ship taking water are unmistakable, and this is a lot of water. Sinbad’s face twists in rage, looking around for the source of the scuttling, finding only Ja’far on deck. “You! Did you do this? Answer me now, or it will be your last moments!”

 

His ship, the _Sindria_ , splitting apart beneath his feet--his home, his livelihood, his refuge and pride and prize, wrenched out of his hands, and for what? A few moments of pleasure because he’d thought he’d seen something in those dead, cold eyes? The rest of the crew runs below deck, but Sinbad stays, golden eyes locked on Ja’far.

 

"I--" Ja'far has never felt so incapable, so _unprepared_ in his life when faced with the pure rage--the pure _hurt_ in Sinbad's gaze. "I didn't!" _Not intentionally, not on purpose, I want to stay here with you and Masrur and everyone else, I never wanted this_ \--"Sin, you have to believe me, this wasn't--"

 

Instinct makes him tighten his hold on Judal when the Magi's head lolls, though it's in vain when a swarm of black rukh surrounds him in such numbers that it's visible even to them, snatching him in short order from Ja'far's hold and up into the air where Isnan, The Weapons Dealer, sits upon his own wand. "You're becoming too good of an actor, Assassin. Shall we change your name?"  It's not exactly a friendly banter, though another cloud of rukh pools begrudgingly at Ja'far's feet all the same. "Come. For your work here, you'll be greatly rewarded, just as Huntress said." His gaze flickers to Sinbad, smile unkind. "And you, Sinbad--we have plans for you. You won't die here today, don't worry."

 

The thought of someone being _rewarded_ for sharing his bed, giving him what had seemed like shy, reluctant, begrudging acceptance is enough to make Sinbad’s rage bright enough to blot out the sun, and he surges forward, only to be thrown backwards by a sharp jerk of the deck beneath his feet, timbers shivering and rending. 

 

He has enough time to catch a flash of red as Masrur vaults up from the hold, soaking wet to the waist, and shouts a warning. “Don’t! He’s not--”

 

Masrur ignores his Captain, throwing out an arm, grabbing Ja’far’s wrist. Black rukh lashes at him, and he ignores that too, eyes serious. “You don’t have to.”

 

Ja'far opens his mouth to respond, a last desperate burst of hope making him surge forward, his hand scrabbling its way up Masrur's arm. 

 

And then his vision blurs, everything within his sight turning _strange_ , warped as if he's viewing it from behind fogged sea glass. Ja'far doesn't know why his other hand moves, especially when everything feels so _heavy_ , like there's another person sitting on his shoulders. Ja'far feels nothing but the warm leather handle of a dagger between his fingertips, still new and barely used courtesy of being so recently gifted, and no matter how strong Masrur is, it takes surprisingly little force to slice open his jugular, spilling his life's blood in one easy slash. 

 

The weight leaves him in an instant, the dagger clattering down onto the splitting wood. Black rukh grasps and grabs and hauls him upward as he sinks to his knees, drained and trembling, and Ja'far hears Isnan sigh, long and put out.  "Waste of my magoi. Come now, children, our Father awaits." 

 

_I should have seen this coming._

 

The noise seems to fade around him as red droplets fly, mixing with the spray of the ocean crashing up around them. 

 

Sinbad runs, but Masrur’s neck is half-severed, windpipe cut through, the carotid artery cleanly slashed, eyes glazed over in less than a second as his lifeblood drips to the deck of the ruined ship.

 

He can’t even _chase_ them, not with how they disappear into thin air, Judal and Isnan and Ja--and the _murderer_ all together, as happy a family as they’ve ever been, as Masrur’s blood runs hot over his fingers and his own pulses cold in his veins.

 

“Abandon ship.” He’s not sure where the words come from, harsh and twisted, and they don’t sound like his own no matter how his lips are moving. His men are drowning, sucked down by the pull of the ship, and it takes all of Sinbad’s power to split the _Sindria_ in two down the middle, diving into the hold to pull up whoever he can, drawing on Focalor’s power to save as many as he can--too few, too few, and it’s all his own fault.

 

His--and the Assassin’s.

 

Something goes cold in Sinbad that should always have been warm, slumped with the few survivors on a torn scrap of wood, watching his home and his friends sink into the vast, unforgiving sea. There are no words. No one speaks. It’s days before they think of eating, drinking, doing anything other than breathing and, occasionally, weeping.

 

Sinbad can’t even do that. 

 

The only thought on his mind is finding the Assassin, and ending him.


	8. Chapter 8

Ja'far doesn't remember much of the first month when he returns.

 

It's for the best. What he does remember isn't pleasant, no matter how it was said over and over that he'd be rewarded. In a way, this is sort of a reward, the cold clinking metal of chains that strain his arms, the taste of sour, sharp poison on his tongue, the rent of knives into his flesh as little more than a brand to remind him _where he belongs_.

 

He believes them. Al-Sarmen doesn't need to convince him, not after what he's done.

 

 _It wasn't really your hand that slit Masrur's throat_ , some odd part of his mind tries to say, but Ja'far doesn't believe that, not even knowing that it was Isnan within him, controlling him like a puppet. In the end, it was still him; his programming led Al-Sarmen to them, after all, telling him to plant a method of tracing their movements the whole while, and what easier way than a misplaced dagger or five? 

 

By the time he's released, dusted off, polished, sewn up and put back on display, Ja'far is just tired. 

 

Surprisingly, little has changed within the Kou Empire, save for the fact it's a bit more quiet, a bit more wary. The day that he arrives back at the palace, Judal is nowhere within sight, and Ja'far knows why. _You've been relieved of your duties regarding the Oracle_ , he was told. It shouldn't shake him so, but after a decade of minding Judal, it's _odd_. Out of sight, but not out of mind, and Ja'far knows he's probably chained up within his own chambers, miserable and lonely. 

 

Sinbad's golden eyes, full of rage and betrayal, flash before his vision, and Ja'far suddenly thinks such a thing is a kinder fate.

 

Handed no immediate assignments, Ja'far retreats, though the libraries offer little solace. _You're an assassin, not a bookkeeper._

 

He's hardly certain he's good at either, now.

 

“ _There_ you are!”  

 

Kouen’s voice is stark in the quietude of the library, and the prince rushes over, laying a friendly hand on Ja’far’s shoulder. “They said you returned, but I didn’t know where you were, and they told me nothing else.” He would say more, but Ja’far is cold, eyes as cold as his skin, and the expression on his face is nothing short of frightening.

 

Ja'far doesn't as much turn his head to look at Kouen as he does let it twitch in mild acknowledgment. "They haven't told me much either," is his simple retort, and Ja'far's head tilts. "You sound happy to see me." 

 

 _Of course he is, Al-Sarmen whore_ , is the voice in his head that sounds strangely like Sinbad's, full of spite.

 

Kouen gives Ja’far a little shove. “Of course I am. It’s been awful without you, Mei and Ren fight every day about who’s going to do the books, and we’ve been worried about you and Judal. No one knew where you’d gone.”

 

Ja'far rocks a bit with the shove, blinking. "I went chasing after Judal, obviously. He's no longer my problem, which is for the best, if he wants to insist on causing so much trouble like that ever again." It's a canned response, something that rolls off of his tongue without a single thought, and ah, it _burns_ , making something flip over in his chest.

 

“He hasn’t been to see me. I went by his room, but it was magically sealed.” Kouen frowns. “Did something happen?”

 

"… Other than his galavanting around the world on a pirate's ship?" Ja'far dryly retorts. A dozen and a half things, maybe more, _definitely_ more, flutter through his mind, and he wavers, suddenly tired again. "They'll let you in to talk to him eventually," he murmurs, sagging visibly as he turns away to drop onto the nearest piece of furniture. "They still want him to choose you."

 

Kouen’s brow furrows in concern, and he steps closer, pulling back at the last second. Then he sighs, folding his hands into his robe. “I had thought we were more friends than colleagues, after all these years.”

 

"I don't think I'm quite capable of such a thing." It's not true, Ja'far thinks, no matter the ease that the words roll off of his tongue as if a button were pressed. He's gotten drunk around a group of idiots, guessed enough ages, had enough daggers thrown at his head, kissed enough times, talked about enough books--

 

_Slit enough throats._

 

The thought of it being Kouen, too, for some unheard of reason, makes him shiver before he can stop himself. "And even if I was, you wouldn't want me to be." 

 

Kouen frowns. Obviously, something’s happened, something that’s taken whatever he and Ja’far were to each other, maybe he and Judal too. 

 

But in the end, what can he do? They aren’t _his_. They’re on loan, as Al-Sarmen has been quick enough to point out on many occasions, and all he can do is shrug. “You know where my room is, if you need me. We’ve _all_ missed you.”

 

 _Then you're_ all _idiots._

 

Ja'far sucks in a slow breath, and finally lifts his head to look at Kouen. The problem lies in the fact he's a good man, that he honestly _does_ care, and it's still so, so fresh, what happens when Ja'far allows himself even a moment's indulgence with someone like that. "… Thank you," he says all the same. "But I do have an assignment in the next week and a half that I need to attend to. It's best if my focus lies there. You'll be busy with Judal soon enough, anyway."

 

“If you say so.” Reservations very much intact, misgivings in every step, Kouen does as Ja’far asks, and leaves him alone in the library.

 

~~

 

 

A personal attendant to their father falls, and that's the first concrete thing Ja'far has heard in awhile.

 

It's a shock, a ripple even through Al-Sarmen, though Ja'far finds himself less concerned with them and more so with the other rumors floating about. Sinbad _lives_ , is his first thought. No matter what Isnan had said, Ja'far still expected him dead, one way or another. Wherever Al-Sarmen goes, apparently, so does Sinbad. Some say he takes out entire towns and cities, burning them and their inhabitants to the ground--others say he allows the innocent to leave first, or forces them to work on his newly acquired ship(s, sometimes plural). 

 

Rumors, all of it. Ja'far isn't sure if he wants to hear the truth.

 

There's a modicum of unease within the Kou Empire with every inch that the man draws closer. Ja'far wishes he could feel it. His mind rests not on his work, but instead the odd, niggling agitation of knowing Judal is still locked away and that he's supplying the drug to keep him there, painstakingly mixing it and wordlessly passing it to another agent to stuff down the boy's throat. 

 

It would be easier, if he were doing it himself. He would feel less disconnected, he thinks.

 

Better, slightly, when he can actually leave the empire to work. Ja'far worries less of Judal then, more on the task at hand, and in this case, it's a small province some week's travel away, leaving him dusty and tired by the time he arrives. Assassinate its ruler's advisors to better replace them with Al-Sarmen agents--it's an old song and dance, and something he is _sure_ he can actually accomplish without hitch.

 

Al-Sarmen is moving in this city, Sinbad’s agents have told him. That much is certain.

 

The Queen here is a decent enough sort, a bit feeble-minded as far as rulers go, but Sinbad doesn’t care. All that matters is that someone from Al-Sarmen is here, has been here, will be here in the next several days, according to the Seer they’d taken on board last month, and that’s enough for him. 

 

His men--not _his men_ , just the men he’s picked up to work for him in the last few months, none of them are any kind of substitute for the family he’s lost--are moving into place, laying explosives casually, finding little ways to make themselves invaluable to people for long enough to slip unnoticed into an empty room. By sundown, the entire place will be ready to blow. Sinbad has the escape routes memorized, and men laid along them. One shot, and his flag will fly, and everyone in this part of the world knows what it means by now. Ten minutes, and everything goes up in flames. Simple, if crude. Not anything he would have done months ago.

 

He’s a different man now.

 

The old Sinbad wouldn’t have been able to kill the man Al-Sarmen had sent, all consoling words and promises of power, all assurances that his men hadn’t needed to die and that he’d have the Assassin’s head on a platter, that all the power to rule the world would be his if he accepted their help.

 

The old Sinbad probably wouldn’t have enjoyed hearing the man scream, or crushing the little doll under his boot.

 

It’s far from the only agent he’s killed, but certainly the highest-ranked, judging by the looks on the faces of the agents he’s captured and killed since. None of them have had moonlight hair, or freckles, or had given him earrings that still burn his ears. He twists them sometimes, knowing he should take them out, wanting the pain they give him anyway.

 

An hour to sundown, and Sinbad takes his leave from the men, suddenly needing to find a whore and fuck her against a wall. 

 

He turns swiftly around a corner, smacking facefirst into someone small, and immediately throws out a hand to help steady the person. “My apolo--”

 

Not person.

 

 _Assassin_.

 

As fate would have it, _nothing_ ever goes without a hitch.

 

In that instant, _everything_ rushes to the forefront of his mind--the initial anger Sinbad had when he stowed away on his ship, the begrudging coexistence, the drunken parties, the paperwork, the books he can still feel falling apart beneath his fingertips, that incredible urge to kiss him _when he shouldn't, can't, absolutely can't_ until he finally _did_ \--

 

Except it's different.

 

 _Sinbad_ is different. That difference rolls off of him in waves, and the look in his eyes makes Ja'far's breath hitch. The seams of his mind Al-Sarmen had so carefully stitched back into place unravel, even as he lurches where he stands, weight shifting backward. "Sin, you're… here." A terribly astute observation, that. 

 

Sinbad’s arms are strong, and he lifts Ja’far easily, slamming him back into the wall. He wishes he didn’t remember what Ja’far’s arms felt like under his skin, what his hips felt like in his hands, the sound their bodies made slapping against each other, the way Ja’far’s hair had looked in the moonlight, slipping softly through his fingers…

 

Like Masrur’s blood had slipped through his fingers.

 

His ears burn, and he wants more than anything for it to be the poison. His face twists, and he slams Ja’far back again, knocking the wind out of him, eyes on his arms before they can reach for a dagger. “And Al-Sarmen is here. Last words. Five seconds.”

 

Instinct, more than anything, bids him to move. One of the blades on his arms twitches down into his fingers, and his mind tells him to _kill Sinbad, kill him before he kills you._

 

Ja'far's hand shakes, and he can't quite do it. 

 

"Judal still needs me-- _you_." It's the first thing, the _only_ thing that he can muster in such a short timeframe. "If you kill me, I don't know what they'll do to him. You can hate me all you want, you can not believe me, but _please_ , just hear me out about _this_ \--"

 

One knee comes up hard into the Assassin’s gut, a hand grabbing both wrists and pinning them over Ja’far’s head against the wall. “You liked playing like this, didn’t you, whore?” he spits, eyes narrowed to slits. “Making him believe you cared about him? Like you weren’t just waiting to cut his throat until it would hurt him the most?”

 

" _That wasn't me!_ "

 

It _burns_ , the thought that after all this time, Sinbad still thinks _he_ was the one to slit Masrur's throat and leave him to die. Of course he would, though; why should he think any different? Ja'far's chest heaves, and he suddenly shoves a foot back against the wall, enough leverage granted to push off, slamming his knee up into Sinbad's chin and twisting away in short order, both blades in hand as he straightens, limbs shaking. "That wasn't me," he quietly repeats. "That was _Isnan_ , inside of me. He _made me_ do that, I didn't want to kill Masrur or you or _anyone._ It was the same with the trail I left behind--I still barely remember any of it, it wasn't something I _wanted_ to do!"

 

Sinbad’s face contorts in rage. Not only does Ja’far think he’s stupid enough to _believe_ something like that, after seeing the _proof_ of his perfidy--after seeing the trail he’d left, seeing how excited Al-Sarmen was to welcome him back, to _reward_ him--

 

He can’t even think. 

 

“Looking for another reward from them? You make me sick.”

 

His bracelet flares to life, and feathers ripple from his body. “Stand against me, if you think you’re _able_ , Assassin.” Focalor’s power takes him over, wind gathering at his hands. “Not even your prized Recruiter was able to do that!”

 

Maybe there is no use.

 

No. Not maybe. There simply _isn't_ any use, and it _hurts_ , as fresh a pain as the day the Huntress appeared on Sinbad's ship, a gloating distraction while Isnan worked his magic unhindered. Ja'far simply lets his blades clatter to the ground, his knees hitting it shortly afterward as his head bows. "The only reward they could have given me would have been death." _You're right, it was all my fault, I should have never thought I could leave them, I'm too weak and I was stupid on top of that._ "But I'm _begging you_ \--even if you want to kill me, at least let me lead you into Kou, so you can free Judal first. _Please."_ He sucks in a ragged breath, lifting his head. "You're still wearing those damned earrings, _some_ part of you must have doubts."

 

Sinbad is going to laugh in his face.

 

Sinbad is going to tell him he’s _wrong_ , it’s just to keep him angry that he wears the earrings still, that there’s no part of him that doubts Ja’far is anything more than a traitor, a perfect loyal agent, a soulless, heartless bastard who would as soon kill everyone around him as breathe.

 

Sinbad _is_.

 

He’s not quite sure why the wind dies from his hands, or what makes his shoulders sag. 

 

_Captain. Please._

 

_Every time you pleaded for his life, I listened, and it got you killed._

 

Somehow, Sinbad is sure that even knowing that, Masrur would have asked for the benefit of the doubt one last time.

 

He closes his eyes, halfway hoping that when he opens them, Ja’far will be gone. _Months chasing revenge and when I finally get here, I know it won’t do a damn thing to make me feel better._

 

Ja'far swallows hard, every tense muscle in his body trembling as he sags. His head _hurts_ , pulse pounding and throbbing and he wants to simply lie down and never move again. He nearly does it. "… There was no reward," he somehow manages to whisper. "Do you really think they didn't _know_ about how I wanted to leave and stay with you and Masrur? And even if there _had_ been a reward, it wouldn't have changed that. I still wanted to stay." 

 

“He would have wanted me to hear you out.” Sinbad’s voice is hoarse, and he wishes he could pretend it’s from anger instead of holding in tears. “I told you. If you hurt him….I told you.”

 

"It wasn't _me_." Ja'far wishes it sounded more insistent, less _desperate_. "It _wasn't_. But I…" His next swallow is less dry, his voice choking in his throat. "If I could have changed anything… I never would have chased after you. All of this is my fault, and I'm _sorry_." 

 

“You still would have,” Sinbad says dully, leaning back against the wall, exhausted. “I had Judal. I just didn’t know I was trading his life for my men’s.” He aches inside, in a way he’s been too cold to feel, but letting the cold take over is what had drawn Recruiter to him in the first place. It’s better to hurt.

 

"I should have left him with you." Better, not to say _I told you they'd come, you didn't believe me_ , but that doesn't matter. None of this does. Ja'far sort of lists to the side, his head thudding dully against the wall. "He's as good as dead now. They'll use him until his rukh is fully black, then use him up. They've tried for centuries to make it happen, now they can."

 

“There’s not a word you can say that I can believe,” Sinbad warns, but it doesn’t sound as angry as he wants it to. He doesn’t feel angry, anymore. This man isn’t the personification of evil he’s been imagining, not the smirking, dark-cloaked and masked master of manipulation. This man is slight, and short, and looks more hollow than Sinbad feels, and there’s no victory in that. “I wish it were otherwise.”

 

"I know." Ja'far exhales a long, shuddering breath. "That's fine. I meant it, though. I'll lead you into Kou. I don't care if you've killed Recruiter. He's still just a magician at the end of the day. A fortress of dungeon capturers like yourself and magicians as well… one man can't do that alone. You can kill me, for all I care, once I've gotten you there."

 

“I don’t stab men in the back.” He doesn’t need to add _not like you_. They both hear it, he knows. “What have they done to Judal? What will they do?”

 

"… I don't know the full details," the assassin admits, and slowly, he rises to his feet, too weary to bother dusting himself off. "He's no longer in my care. The only thing I do is mix the tonic that keeps him placid day in and day out… he's kept within his chambers, but they're magicked, and thoroughly."

 

“You’re capable. Have you done anything to try and free him?”

 

Ja'far stares dully back at him. "I haven't had the capacity to disobey since my _reward_."

 

“You said there was no reward.” Sinbad narrows his eyes, taking in the sallow tone of the assassin’s skin, the dullness of his eyes. “What did they do to you?”

 

"The word 'reward' was a joke." One in poor taste, no doubt. "I don't remember it all. It was to serve as a reminder."

 

“Like your legs.”

 

"Except the stitches are-- _were_ in my mind." Ja'far shakes his head. "It doesn't matter. Will you come back to Kou or not?"

 

Is there any choice? A stupid question. There isn’t. Fate is speaking, and Sinbad moves with it. “Yeah. I’ll come. Let me send my men off. Meet me here at midnight. Oh….” Sinbad looks up at the sun. “And between now and then, get out of town. For your own safety.”

 

Ja'far nods before he hesitates, bending briefly to pull a dagger from one thigh. "… If you change your mind," is his simple reply, holding it out to Sinbad, hilt-first. "The other one Masrur gave me… it was lost at sea. I think this one would be better served with you. Maybe you can kill me with it later." 

 

“Maybe,” Sinbad says, doubting the word even as he says it. Still, it feels better to have it as not, and it’s still warm from being strapped to the assassin’s thigh. Sinbad turns it over in his hand, remembering. “I helped him pick it out. He told me you’d been losing yours, and he didn’t know when your birthday was.”

 

He shakes his head, tucking it into his belt. “Midnight. Don’t be late.”

 

Another nod, and Ja'far is gone, vanishing from the road and wondering if he has time to finish his job first--or if it matters, attempting to keep up appearances. It certainly never worked before. 

 

A few months ago, Sinbad would have felt bad about lying to his men.

 

But these men aren’t _those_ men, except a few survivors like Sharrkan and Spartos. These are men who had thrown their families and lives away for a chance to sail on a pirate ship, bringing bags of gold back to those lives after a few months of good old-fashioned piracy. Sinbad feels little guilt in telling them he has an errand of several weeks, and appointing Sharrkan as acting Captain. He’ll sail well or sink, and either way, Sinbad’s hardly losing the _Sindria_. He has little left to lose.

 

At midnight, the sea wind has mostly blown the smoke away, debris all that’s left crumbling to the ground, as he waits against a smoldering stone wall.

 

Sinbad wasn't joking about leaving for his own safety. Fortunate, that, because Ja'far hardly felt in the mood to work, anyway.

 

Ja'far is still surprised to see Sinbad _alone_ , expecting a man or two at his side, but then again, who knows if any of them survived? He's silent when he appears to the man's right, blinking calmly up at him. "Are you ready to go?" 

 

“Let’s go to Kou.”

 

Odd, that it feels like they’re partners. He tries to remind himself that they aren’t.

 

He fails.

 

~

 

 _Apologetic_ , Sinbad can stand.

 

 _Vengeful_ , Sinbad can empathize with.

 

 _Pathetic_ kind of gets on his nerves.

 

Ja’far doesn’t speak much in the first few days on the road, no matter that they’re sharing a single horse. Sinbad has the coin for more, but few horses are available in this part of the world, what with recent economic upheavals (that make Sinbad look sideways at The Assassin). 

 

So they share, though it’s uncomfortable for both of them, and at night, Sinbad’s few attempts to make conversation are met with subdued, lifeless answers, if Ja’far answers at all. Most of the time he’s silent, not caring to eat, drinking when Sinbad reminds him, drifting through life like a soulless puppet.

 

His body wilts, reacting to the lack of food and warmth as his mind apparently doesn’t, and after four days on the road, Sinbad can’t stand listening to the shivering anymore. He sighs, reaches out an arm and snags the smaller man by the back of his tunic, and yanks him close against his chest, covering them both with his blanket. “Stop shivering. Go to sleep.”

 

It takes Ja'far a moment to even register the words. 

 

It's an odd feeling, odder to explain to someone that's never experienced it, to feel one's mind shift and pull at itself nearly all the time. If he's silent, that's why. His thoughts jumble at the best of times, a dozen worries and insecurities and reminders of _failures_ , with his only godsend the blissful silence from Al-Sarmen. They're either busy elsewhere, or everything is too frayed for them to reach. Ja'far isn't sure which. He's not sure he has the capacity to care. 

 

That all slides to a halt when he meets the warmth of Sinbad's chest, the shivering that he hasn't noticed he'd been doing coming to a stop. 

 

"… Sorry." His mind churns, suddenly and acutely worried about one thing and one thing only. "I'll stop. You don't have to hold me like this, I know you don't want to." 

 

“It’s fine.” 

 

It’s more than fine, really. He hasn’t wanted to miss the freckles, the slender curves, the pale skin and moonlight hair, but that doesn’t mean he’s been able to stop. He sighs, and lets go of the last tattered shred of hope that he’ll take vengeance on Ja’far after all. “Masrur didn’t save your life so you could be miserable. Or so I could hate you.”

 

"I'm not… miserable." Isn't he, though? That's the perfect word for it, now that he can actually think about it. Ja'far sinks down, his head laying against Sinbad's chest no matter his hesitation. "I don't think I'm anything."

 

“That seems like a waste.” Hesitantly, one of Sinbad’s arms wraps around Ja’far’s waist, trying hard not to think about the last time they’d been like this. “You could be anything.”

 

Ja'far's head slowly shakes. "I tried. They just remade me." 

 

“Not very well, if you’re here now.” One hand comes up, brushing through a strand of pale hair.

 

"… They didn't expect me to see you again." Ja'far shivers again, no matter how hard he tries not to. "I saw you, and everything fell apart."

 

“Then…” The ghost of a smile passes over Sinbad’s face, and he squeezes. “Don’t look away.”

 

Sinbad is _warm_.

 

It's not the same sort of white-hot rage that the man offered him when they met on the street. This is different, slow-burning and soothing, and Ja'far curls himself into a ball, plastering himself against Sinbad's chest. He can't _help it_. "I don't… think I can, even if I try." 

 

“That’s all right.” It is, somehow, even if it shouldn’t be. Ja’far should be uncomfortable when he curls up like that, but he’s not that either, and Sinbad finds it quite easy to drift off again. “Then as long as we’re together, you’re all right.”

 

~~

 

Ja’far is a little better after the first night, and Sinbad watches him thaw slightly after every night they spend like that, curled up together against the desert cold. Not empty, then, just frozen, and that’s a lot easier for him to deal with.

 

So when the road to Kou brings them through a last little village before entering the county proper, Sinbad takes advantage of it, dragging Ja’far to the closest thing to a tavern, sitting a big warm bowl of stew between the two of them. “Eat.”

 

It's a command. Ja'far can process commands.

 

The more he eats, though, the more his world stops being an odd, hazy sort of flow of motions and actions that don't quite mean anything. Instead, it's a bit warmer--a bit more annoying, if he's going to be precise, what with the sand that seems firmly engrained into his clothing and the aches in his bones from so much traveling. 

 

And then there's Sinbad.

 

It still makes his mind shiver to look at the man, but he manages it as he swallows a mouthful of wine. 

 

"I thought you would have killed me by now." It's hard to remember much of what's been said between them over the past few days--if there's been forgiveness, acceptance, or anything else. Ja'far wouldn't blame him either way, if Sinbad still wanted him dead.

 

“I thought so too.” No use pretending there’s no tension between them, after all. Ja’far is, could be, had been many things, but stupid isn’t one of them. “But I try only to kill my opponents. You remember that from your time on my ship, don’t you?”

 

"Yes," Ja'far slowly allows, even though he frowns. "But…" 

 

He probably shouldn't push his luck. If Sinbad doesn't want to kill him, that's a good thing, isn't it?

 

"…He's called the Dollmaker." Ja'far fishes out a sizable hunk of meat. "Al-Sarmen's finest at torture and interrogation. He is the one assigned to make us… _them_ all fall into depravity. Faster, if we're disobedient. You said you met the Magi Yunan before, didn't you?" 

 

Sinbad twirls a spoon between his fingers, thinking about that for a moment, before grabbing a potato chunk and eating it. He chews thoughtfully. _The Dollmaker._ Silently, he adds another name to the list of Al-Sarmen agents he wants to kill personally. “I did. Knew him pretty well, once upon a time, or at least had a few adventures together. What about him?”

 

"Even Yunan fears him. The Dollmaker took another Magi, Duban, Yunan's lover, and tried to turn him. It didn't work, and he died. That's why Judal was born into this world, and why he is so young, compared to the other two Magi." Ja'far shrugs carefully, setting his spoon down. "Or that's what they say, at any rate." 

 

At the thought of _Yunan_ , that inexhaustible source of power and knowledge (no matter how he hides it at times under a fool’s facade) being afraid of someone, something deep inside Sinbad quails.

 

None of that shows on his face, and he wraps a hand around Ja’far’s, carefully dipping the spoon back into the bowl. “Eat,” he says sternly, “or I _will_ feed you.” 

 

Then he leans back in his chair, pulling out his pipe. “Seems like Yunan would be pretty grateful if I could get rid of this man, then. He’s just a man, in the end. Tougher than your Recruiter, do you think?”

 

"… It's better if you don't try." Ja'far frowns, but nevertheless moves to start eating again. "He's like Isnan. As old as the time of Solomon, and even harder to kill… I don't even know where you would begin." He hesitates before glancing up again. "And forgive me, if this is selfish… but I'd rather not give them the satisfaction of having you die by their hands--or worse, if he turns your rukh black…"

 

“‘Better if you don’t try’….” Sinbad muses, stabbing another piece of meat. “You do understand what my goal is, don’t you? After freeing Judal from Kou?”

 

"It's a stupid one," Ja'far bluntly says. "You can't kill them all. More and more people will defy their fate and their rukh will turn black and so Al-Sarmen will _always_ be here." 

 

Sinbad shrugs. “Maybe. Or maybe I can stop them.” He grins. “You have to admit, if anyone can do it, it’s probably me.”

 

"… Why can't you just run off somewhere with Judal and make a country and stop getting yourself into horrible situations?" If he sounds tired, it's because he _is_ , and Ja'far lets his head drop down into one hand. "Or get another ship, even. A proper one, that doesn't go around burning places to the ground." 

 

“Because as long as Al-Sarmen can destroy countries and ships with a wave of their hands, those places aren’t really safe. Not for me, not for Judal, not for anyone.” Sinbad reaches across the table, patting Ja’far on the cheek. “Don’t worry. Even if there are always going to be people who want to do evil, it’ll be a lot harder if they’re not organized. Maybe that’s why I was born. I always figured I had a great destiny.”

 

"Or maybe, you really are just a big idiot," Ja'far murmurs, tipping his head forward into Sinbad's hand. "I believe I called that the first day I met you."

 

Sinbad raises an eyebrow, leaning forward. “Look into my eyes,” he offers, “and tell me I’m not meant for great things.”

 

Ja'far lifts his head, his expression wry. "It doesn't matter to me what you're meant for," he quietly says. "I just don't want you to die." 

 

Ja’far, Sinbad tries to tell himself, is still his enemy, still untrustworthy, still a member of Al-Sarmen.

 

It’s a pity that doesn’t seem to matter to him either.

 

Uncaring of their surroundings, Sinbad cups Ja’far’s face, leaning across the table to give his lips a gentle kiss.

 

"Sin--" The protest dies on his lips, swallowed down with another dozen things that Ja'far thinks might be good to say. They aren't, probably. It doesn't stop the last stitch in his mind from wriggling its way loose all the same, and Ja'far sinks back with a shudder, a hand reaching out to helplessly grasp at Sinbad's wrist, lest he think the better of everything he's doing and _leave_. 

 

"It doesn't matter to me if you stay a sailor or a king. Just… stay." Ja'far swallows hard. "And I will, too."

 

Slowly, Sinbad picks up a slice of carrot from the stew, and pops it into Ja’far’s mouth. “It’s a deal.”

 

Ja'far contemplates biting his fingers off. He chews and swallows nonetheless. "I'm full, stop force-feeding me."

 

“You’re too thin. Someone’s got to take responsibility for your well-being, because obviously you won’t.” His voice is mock-stern, but there’s genuine concern in his eyes.

 

"I eat enough." 

 

“If that were true, you wouldn’t be so thin.” Sinbad grins ruefully, tracing one of Ja’far’s wristbones with a fingertip. “Listen to me, I sound like my mother. Next thing you know I’ll be saying the only _real_ supper is a full Partevian supper.”

 

"I'm not much thinner than I was before." Ja'far's head tilts contemplatively, his fingers curling as he watches the slide of Sinbad's fingers against his skin. "Everything tastes the same to me, so I suppose you'd know better than me." 

 

“Everything tastes--is that because of all the poisons you take?” Sinbad frowns. “Doesn’t seem worth it to me. What’s the point in living longer if you can’t enjoy food?”

 

"Maybe. I think I burnt my sense of taste out, when I was younger… it doesn't bother me, though. I'm used to it. If anything, isn't it convenient? No preferences make it a lot easier to eat while traveling." 

 

“But it takes all the joy out! That’s like taking all the sensation out of sex. Besides,” Sinbad adds, grinning at his own cleverness, “what if there was something off about the food, turned or flavored with a poison you’re not immune to?”

 

"… There are only three poisons in the world I'm not fully immune to yet and they're hardly easily acquired by any normal man." Ja'far makes a face. "And believe it or not, I have a very strong stomach--so long as I'm not on a ship."

 

Sinbad narrows his eyes. “You can’t be immune to every sort of mushroom. My mother said there were more kinds of mushrooms that can kill you than there are men with knives in the world.” He grins sheepishly. “Not that that stopped me from eating them whenever I got hungry outside.”

 

"… I assure you I am. They often have very similar toxins, and they aren't very strong, besides. The worst ones often take weeks before they cause organ failure."

 

“That doesn’t sound right at _all_. My mother--” He cuts himself off before he can use the phrase “my mother said” more times than is allowable for a grown man. “Ah, well, if you’re sure. At least it makes it easier to not mind the taste of _other_ things, eh?”

 

His mind is still a bit fuzzy around the edges, and so it takes a moment for the innuendo to click into place. When it does, Ja'far flushes in spite of himself. "With _that_ ," he mutters, "it's more the _mess_." 

 

“That you like? Or that you avoid?” Sinbad teases. His mirth fades, thinking of something he’s been wondering for a while, something that’s uncomfortable to wonder when he’s sitting across a table from Ja’far instead of chasing him all over a few continents. “Hey...tell me honestly. I know you were taking orders from them, whether you wanted to or not. Just….how much of what was….between us, and between you and Masrur….how much of that was real?”

 

"… All of it." 

 

Ja'far frowns, looking down into his cup of wine. "When I stowed away on your ship, I already had been punished for losing Judal. They left me in the port city, and I snuck aboard, injuring myself in the process. Even though they never said as much… the insinuation was that I returned with Judal, or I didn't come back at all. I was as good as dead to them--and in general--when Masrur found me. I didn't ask for his help. I wanted him to kill me." He bites the inside of his cheek briefly. "I still wish he had. Al-Sarmen… they might have ordered me to leave a trail behind, but they can't manipulate emotions like that. And I… didn't want to care. About you, or him. It still ended up that way." 

 

“Don’t wish yourself dead.” Sinbad reaches across the table, taking Ja’far’s slender hand in his own and squeezing. “The world will try to make you that way soon enough. Make a fight of it, yeah?” 

 

He strokes his thumb over the back of Ja’far’s hand. “Masrur would never have killed you. You know that now, don’t you?”

 

"… Unfortunately." Ja'far heaves a long sigh, his fingers curling tight about Sinbad's. "I'm glad, at least, that Al-Sarmen can't manipulate things like that. They've never been able to. Their only way is to make someone fall into depravity, and well… here I am. Some of my rukh must still be white, at least." 

 

“Have you asked Judal? He can see it, all the time. Half the time he was rubbing his face on me, I think he was really just rolling around in my rukh.” Sinbad smiles briefly, but it fades to worry. “Do you think he’ll be all right?”

 

"I've never asked," Ja'far admits, and he gives a shrug, fingers not loosening their grip. "I don't know. If we can get him out… he's just a child, really. He's never _done_ anything to fall into depravity, so for them to try and force it..." _I've always done it in lieu of him._

 

  “Tell me what it means,” Sinbad says, twining his fingers with Ja’far’s, “exactly, to fall into depravity. I mean, it sounds as if it’s just about whether you’re a good person or not, but if that were the case I’d have been a member of Al-Sarmen years ago.”  

 

"Al-Sarmen has always said that it's to go against one's fate, but… I've never really understood that," the assassin admits, eyes lidding. "They know how to speed it up, by forcing a person to do things they never would--'bad' things, usually, yes, especially to reach goals that they never would have otherwise attained. Once all of your rukh is black, that's when you're considered fallen." 

 

  “Is it reversible? Once you change, can you change back, by doing good deeds or committing selfless acts?” A dozen ideas turn over and over in Sinbad’s mind, not quite plans, not quite yet.  

 

Ja'far frowns. "… I've never seen it happen, once a person is fully changed. But before that… I've been told rukh is a constantly fluctuating thing between white and black, if a person is struggling against their fate. That's why they try to change people as quickly as possible."

 

  It makes sense, of course. Why struggle to turn someone if it’s inevitable? Sinbad nibbles a bit at his bottom lip, considering. “If we had Judal, we could tell how far mine is turned, don’t you think? And someone turned—what happens to them?”  

 

"He could tell you in an instant," Ja'far confirms with a nod. "And once a person is turned… well, it depends on how they're turned. Through actions, and they slowly deteriorate, eaten away by the power inside of them--unless they're particularly powerful. Then they're like Isnan… monsters, more or less. Others… black metal vessels can turn a person into a black djinn. There have been cases when people have turned into such things even without the presence of a black metal vessel, though." 

 

  Sinbad nods slowly. “Recruiter tried to give me a black metal vessel. Said it would make me more powerful than I could ever imagine, and I’d never even miss what it took from me.” His smile twists. “Call me crazy, but I have a feeling someone doesn’t use a thing like that and come out the other side again afterwards.”  

 

"… You die, in essence, if you use one of those things. Black djinn… they're just creatures of destruction and loss. No one ever survives, turning into things like that."

 

“Well, then I’d better not turn into one!” Sinbad grins. “You finished with supper? I’d like to sleep on a real bed tonight, not the ground.”  

 

Ja'far nods, downing back the rest of his wine before carefully untangling his hand from Sinbad's and making to rise. "At least it'll be warmer in here." He doubts he'll sleep, what with the way Sinbad tends to twist and squirm.

 

  A gold coin flipped to the innkeeper is enough for a meal and a room twenty times over, and a stammering girl shows Sinbad and Ja’far to the largest, most well-furnished room in the house, with a giant bed to boot. Sinbad raises his eyes, kicking off his boots before testing it out. “It’s huge. You’ve probably got enough room that I won’t even kick you.”  

 

"You still _move_ ," Ja'far grumbles a bit, sighing as he toes off his own shoes and neatly deposits himself onto the edge of it. Loosening his obi, he lets his robes slink from his shoulders, the long tail of his hair pulled over his shoulder to be braided away for sleep. "You and Judal are the two most restless sleepers in the world."

 

  “So whiny. I can always sleep on the floor if you want,” Sinbad offers, then ignores his own words and grabs Ja’far around the waist, pulling him close. It feels good just to have him here, ignoring everything that’s happened, pretending for just a moment that it’s fine, that nothing else is going to go wrong.  

 

"It isn't _where_ you sleep, it's the fact you still _move_ \--" The assassin huffs, finding himself abruptly pressed against Sinbad's chest, and he decides that's nice, what with how warm the man is. _Very nice_ , what with how only a few days prior, Sinbad had wanted him dead. Ja'far shifts, resting his chin atop his shoulder, his eyes lidding. "And you just said you wanted a real bed tonight."

 

  “But I want you to sleep, too.” Sinbad strokes a hand down Ja’far’s back, fingers tracing gently over every scar, ghosting over old raised welts. “Tell me you want me with you on the bed, even if I roll and kick and squirm.”  

 

It's a problem, the fact that every time Sinbad gives even something _shy_ of a command, Ja'far feels compelled to follow.

 

It isn't because of any of Al-Sarmen's programming. It's because most of the things that come out of Sinbad's mouth are _nice_ , things that he _wants_ , just like the slide of those calloused fingertips dragging down his back, making him shiver and reach out, his hands splaying over Sinbad's upper arms. "… Stay in bed with me." _Even if I don't sleep, it doesn't matter._

 

Obligingly, Sinbad stretches out, bringing Ja’far with him by main force of his arms, tucking his face into Ja’far’s neck promptly. He’s quiet for a long moment, running a hand up and down Ja’far’s back, feeling the ripple of his skin. Then, very quietly, he says, “Take out one of your knives. I want you to mark me.”  

 

Ja'far blinks, his head lifting in confusion. "… Mark… you?" he attempts, his brow furrowing. "How? _Why?_ "

 

  “I have enough scars from people I don’t care about.” Sinbad lifts up on his elbows, looking unblinkingly into Ja’far’s eyes. “I’d like one from you.”  

 

The assassin's mouth opens, then closes, the confusion still there on his face even as he slides a hand down to one thigh, drawing up a dagger into his grasp. "… You shouldn't." Even so, he gently takes hold of Sinbad's wrist, tugging his arm out. "What if Al-Sarmen makes me betray you again later?"

 

  “All the more reason.” Sinbad extends his arm without hesitation, baring the unmarked skin there for Ja’far like a blank canvas, a little smile on his face. “I want to remember you just now, like you are here with me. Whatever you like is fine, your initials or an X or anything.”  

 

"I'm not going to carve my _initials_ in you," Ja'far mutters, the little frown on his lips quirking up all the same. Carefully, he sets the blade to flesh, the line he draws less straight and far more of a gently twisting curve or two. "It's a pit viper," he mildly informs Sinbad, and adds a tiny, separate nick for the flick of the 'snake's' tongue. 

 

  Sinbad grins. “Better than your initials, as far as I’m concerned. I have a disturbing lack of drawings on me for a pirate in any case.” He leans over, pressing a soft kiss to Ja’far’s cheek. “If I ever lose myself, I’ll just remember this.”  

 

"There are a dozen better things you can remember," Ja'far grumbles, and he tucks his dagger away again in short order. A tug on Sinbad's arm, and he draws it up to his lips, tongue flicking out to lap away the remarkably precise droplets of blood.

 

  “Mmm, but I can carry this one with me wherever I go. The same can’t really be said for anything else you might be offering.” Sinbad’s eyes lid. “No matter how enjoyable. Hey, let me give you one.”  

 

Ja'far hesitates-- _what if someone from Al-Sarmen sees, they'll know, that'll be the end of this all over again_ \--but only for a moment. He hands Sinbad the dagger, brow still knitting in concern. "Is this a pirate thing? Or just a 'you' thing?"

 

“It’s a me thing. At least, it is now.” Sinbad brushes the hair away from Ja’far’s face, shifting so the moonlight spilling in from the window illuminates him best. “I want you to always remember who you are when you’re with me. Where do you want it?”

 

"… On my arm is fine, too." Ja'far's eyes lid as he stretches out his arm. "Or wherever you'd prefer to do it, really. You can have my whole back, if you want." 

 

“Depends how much of a secret you want it to be.” Sinbad leans down, brushing his lips over the pale expanse of Ja’far’s underarm, blue veins clearly visible in the low light. “I could put it on your inner thigh if you’re embarrassed.”

 

"I'm not _embarrassed_ … but that's fine, too." The assassin pauses, then narrows his eyes. "Unless you're going to draw something particularly lewd." 

 

“Not particularly,” Sinbad says cheerfully. “I was just going to put a pair of broken circles, for the earrings. But I can do a set of twig n’ berries if you want.”

 

"I'll bite your hand off." 

 

Sinbad sighs. “No one appreciates my art.” He lifts Ja’far’s arm, a silver flash all the time it takes to raise two thin red lines, hardly thicker than a thread, interlocking rings.

 

It certainly will be different than every other scar that he has, and Ja'far idly squeezes his hand into a fist, letting a bit more blood well to the surface. In a way, he hopes Al-Sarmen sees, and _soon_. "… Thank you."

 

Sinbad squeezes Ja’far’s hand, then hands back the dagger. “Any time you feel like you’re losing yourself again, just look at that. And remember how much goddamn pain my ears put me through because I trust you when you say they’ll save my life.”

 

"… You're a baby. That was a rather mild poison, all things considered." Ja'far slides the dagger back into place, and promptly wriggles his way forward again, unable to resist the lure of Sinbad's warmth when he's already so close.

 

Sinbad makes a face, but hauls Ja’far back against him anyway, wriggling under the covers with him. “I’m not used to them like you are! For some reason, my body still treats poison like it’s a bad thing.”

 

"Baby," Ja'far repeats, flopping against Sinbad's chest as his arms wind tight about him. "Judal is better about it."

 

“You’ve probably been dosing him since he was old enough to refuse to walk.” Sinbad presses a soft kiss to Ja’far’s cheek, then lays down, eyes closing. “If I got myself a country….do you think we could make it work? You, me, Judal, my boys?”

 

Ja'far's own eyes slowly slide shut, and he exhales a considering breath. It's a pipe dream without a doubt, but the thought of surviving this and running off to make a country at Sinbad's side is a very good one. "Well, I know enough about taxes to at least collect them. Is that a start?"

 

“It’s more than I know. All I really care about is...hmm.” Sinbad nuzzles a little closer, shifting around until he’s comfortable. “Maybe I could finally do some good in the world.”

 

"Sounds like to me like you already do." Ja'far presses his face into Sinbad's neck, breathing in his scent deeply. "Far more than I've ever done." 

 

“Well.” Sinbad tightens his arms, pulls up the blanket, and burrows. “In that case, we’ll just have to make sure we both survive to do a lot more.”


	9. Chapter 9

Ja'far decides it's a good thing that he can sleep around Sinbad now. At least he's more alert when he wakes, and not so bone-tired that he wants to curl up and never move. 

 

Sinbad is _warm_. Warm and solid and comfortable and it's nice, even if Sinbad kicks a bit and wakes him up periodically throughout the night, how the man's hands smooth over his back even in his sleep. The newly carved wound on his arm stings when it rubs against the sheets, and Ja'far likes that too, in spite of all warning bells that tell him otherwise. 

 

The sun isn't quite up when he finds he can't sleep much longer, and Ja'far carefully butts his head beneath Sinbad's chin as a lingering, hesitant display of what he _hopes_ is affection before making to pull away. Maybe a hot bath first thing will be nice.

 

A strong arm curls around Ja’far’s back, a slow, easy morning smile curving Sinbad’s lips. “Don’t go. Not yet.”

 

Against his better judgement, Ja'far flops back down without protest. He doesn't _truly_ want to move very far, anyway. "You only kicked me half a dozen times last night. Good job."

 

“Mmm, I’m getting better. Soon you’ll be able to sleep all night without keeping score of your injuries.” Lazily, Sinbad rolls over, pinning Ja’far underneath him, and promptly attacks him with a flurry of kisses.

 

Somehow, Sinbad is warmer still atop him like this. Ja'far sinks back, his arms coming to drape around the man's back, the slide of his fingertips down Sinbad's spine a lazy, languid thing. He's not quite sure if this means he's entirely forgiven, but it feels like something close. "Doubt that," he murmurs, sucking in a soft breath as he lets his head fall back, neck bared to the other man's mouth. "Lest I string you up before I sleep." 

 

Sinbad laughs, kissing, sucking, nibbling his way down Ja’far’s chest, paying long, sweet attention to his neck, littering it with love bites. “Don’t tempt me, that sounds horribly interesting.”

 

"You don't want me to, not with these," Ja'far warns with a wave of his arms, or tries to, what with how he seems intent to shiver instead, his fingers twitching as they slide up into Sinbad's hair. "They… ah… the wires cut, if you don't know how to handle them…"

 

“But you know how to handle them.” Sinbad presses a kiss to a scarred arm, then moves down to Ja’far’s chest, dragging his tongue over one pert nipple before suckling it into his mouth, tugging gently with his teeth.

 

"B-but _you_ don't," Ja'far groans, one hand sliding deeper into Sinbad's hair, fingers curling close to his scalp and _tugging_ at the scrape of his teeth. A careful squirm, and Ja'far spreads his legs, barely mindful of the daggers still strapped to his thighs. "You're too damned _wiggly_ \--"

 

“So take them off.”

 

Sinbad switches to the other nipple, a leg sliding up between Ja’far’s, coming away in a startled second with an oath of surprise. “Take _everything_ off,” he growls, and rips off the cloth band securing the daggers to Ja’far’s leg with a snarl before bending to bite harder than before.

 

Ja'far means to bite back the squeak that wells in his throat, he _does_ , but it's impossible when Sinbad's teeth nick into him so hard, bruising and marking on their own. "You don't have to _rip it_ ," he gasps out, fumbling to peel the wires from his arms, the mess of them landing in a heap on the bed. "And don't toss them too far, what if something happens--"

 

“Then I’ll protect us.” Sinbad scowls at his metal vessels, somewhere over there. “Just take everything off or I’ll rip it off, I like you naked when you’re squirming around under me.”

 

He slides a hand down, more confident now that no cold steel will nick him, and lazily palms Ja’far’s cock, sucking hard and tugging on a nipple with his teeth. “Do you like having your cock sucked?”

 

The question shouldn't make his hips jerk, especially considering his answer. "I've never… really thought about it." More accurately, no one's ever _bothered_. His chest aches beneath Sinbad's mouth, his nipple throbbing with every pull and suck, and Ja'far briefly squeezes his eyes shut, shuddering as he pulls harder at Sinbad's hair. 

 

Sinbad pauses for a moment, looking up at Ja’far and raising an eyebrow, as if to ask if he’s _serious_. “Well,” he murmurs against Ja’far’s skin, sliding himself downward, the tip of his tongue trailing down Ja’far’s belly, “let’s find out.” 

 

He closes his lips over the head of Ja’far’s cock, lets his eyes slide shut, and gives one long, slow suck.

 

Maybe it's _better_ that no one's ever bothered.

 

The first slick drag of Sinbad's tongue is enough to make him strangle down a very, very incriminating groan, and Ja'far's fingers twist up into his hair, squirming with the urge to let his hips twitch up and slide further against that hot, eager tongue. Sinbad is going to _end him_ , Ja'far desperately thinks, and his thighs quiver before spreading wider, a hitching breath and another mindless pull on Sinbad's hair saying it all about whether he _likes it_ or not.

 

Sinbad shoves down the thought of how sad Ja’far’s life must have been without any cocksucking, resolving instead to make up for it now, moaning low in his throat as he pins the younger man’s hips to the bed, sliding slowly down. The yanking on his hair is _nice_ , a lovely little complement, not to mention he likes having it used as a handle more than he should probably admit. He drags his tongue up the underside of Ja’far’s cock--a _nice_ cock, heavy and hard in his mouth, pale and flushed and not really as slender or pretty as he’d expected, which comes as a nice surprise as he swirls his tongue.

 

It takes effort not to squeak and moan, and Ja'far resigns himself to pulling one hand free, covering his own mouth with a ragged, hot huff of breath through his nose. It's _definitely_ better that no one's ever bothered, or that he'd declined every offer from whatever woman he'd needed to bed out of necessity. This is too distracting, a little too good, and no matter how Sinbad pins him down, his body seems intent on wriggling, trying to weakly thrust up into the heat of that slick mouth with every suck and side of his tongue as Ja'far twists a handful of Sinbad's hair about one hand, yanking him _down_. 

 

Sinbad would chuckle, would whisper something filthy, would tease Ja’far about how eager he is, but he _can’t_ when he’s being yanked down between his legs, letting Ja’far use his mouth, opening as wide as he can and letting Ja’far pull him until he gags, pushing through that until his nose is pressed up against Ja’far’s belly, holding there, swallowing around him with a slow, needing groan. He runs his hands up and down Ja’far’s legs, squeezing, fingernails raking, and only pulls off when he _has_ to breathe, a sticky drop of saliva strung between his lips and Ja’far’s cock for a second before he dives back down.

 

If anything, Ja'far can understand the sort of odd pleasure in _doing_ something like this. 

 

He's never _liked_ sucking cock--it's more the act of being dragged around, his mouth forced down until he can't take anymore and even then _made to_. If Sinbad's reactions are any indication, he's not so different, though Ja'far's hands are too shaky to be so rough, no matter how he pulls and twists and his hips lurch up helplessly, wanting _more_ of that mouth and spasming, slick throat around him. 

 

Probably, he should at least _warn him_ , but there's no hope for it, not when his chest heaves and his thighs bunch and he can't cry out, let alone speak when he comes, flooding Sinbad's mouth as he jerks up, helplessly rutting with both hands tangled up in the man's hair and holding him in place. 

 

Sinbad tries to swallow, taken by surprise by the sudden flood of hot liquid into his mouth, but Ja’far doesn’t give him much of a _choice_. It’s probably better that way, though some spills out over his lips, sticky and oddly tasteless, though the texture is plenty familiar. He pulls off, wiping a hand over his chin, giving a sloppy grin. “I’ll ask you again. Do you like having your cock sucked?”

 

A sort of strangled, garbled sound serves as Ja'far's answer as he flops back, shivering, toes still curling with the lingering sensation. 

 

Sinbad laughs, flopping back onto his back, hands folding behind his head. “Good. I’d hate to think my skills were rusty or something. It’s hard not to enjoy something like that, I hope.”

 

"Usually… doing it for other people." What is moving, exactly? Ja'far groans, his head lolling back. "Been offered it a couple of times… but… don't exactly want a target's head between my legs…"

 

“That’s why I enjoy having sex with people I don’t want to kill. How’s it working out for you so far?”

 

"Ask me again when I can think a little." Ja'far twists partially to the side, making a sloppy grab for Sinbad's cock. "Why aren't you fucking me?" 

 

Sinbad is a lot of things, including patient, but not when he hears a request (demand) like that.

 

Ja’far is on his back in a second, legs spread as wide as his relaxed body will allow, and a single grab for the vial of oil Sinbad keeps in his pocket is all the time he takes. “Well, since you asked so nicely.”

 

The first push in makes him groan, and he doesn’t stop, sliding in to the root in one hard motion, watching Ja’far intently as he’s _filled_.

 

He shouldn't have missed this so much.

 

There are a lot of things the lingering haziness in his head tells him he shouldn't like, or shouldn't do, and this is definitely high on the list, especially with how it makes that fog clear and fade, leaving his mouth to fall open with a ragged groan, his throat to bob with a hard swallow as his legs tremble and splay, heels digging into the bed as he lurches up, wriggling down onto the hard, slick length of Sinbad's cock as it fills him. The fact that it's _been awhile_ makes it better somehow--a tense edge to it all that leaves him squirming and out of breath when Sinbad isn't even _moving_ yet, and Ja'far feels his own cock twitch again as his hands make a grab for handfuls of that long hair once more. 

 

Ja’far is unfairly erotic when he’s like this, squirmy and tense and breathless, and Sinbad likes every bit of it. He likes the guttural noises, the high-pitched whining, the tight frantic squeezing around him, the color rising in Ja’far’s cheeks, and he doesn’t bother holding back. Ja’far’s taste is still on his tongue, and Ja’far _wants_ him, that much is obvious. Sinbad doesn’t waste any time, taking his pleasure, eyes sliding shut at the tight heat, every slick slide inside, every roll of his hips, and he bites down, tasting the freckles of one shoulder. “You like it when I ride you hard.”

 

Ja'far's nod is frantic, eager when he ruts down, his thighs trembling as they cling to Sinbad's waist, drawn up to pull him in _deeper_. If Sinbad is warm wrapped around him, he's _hot_ inside, throbbing and aching and making Ja'far ache tenfold when he presses in deep, bites him and fucks him into the mattress. "W…want to feel all of you," he mumbles, face flushing hotter still, and he bites into his own lip when he shudders, clenching _tight_. _Make everything else go away._

 

One hand comes up to fist in Ja’far’s silky hair, pulling his head back as Sinbad bends to his neck, suckling, bruising, leaving _no doubt_ in anyone’s mind tomorrow that Ja’far’s been _used hard_. He can’t help it, can’t help the way his hands dig in to Ja’far’s slender waist, yanking him down onto every thrust, loving the way Ja’far whines, twists, acts like he _can’t take it_ when they both know he can. “You have all of me,” he murmurs, and his back arches into a tight bow with every roll of his hips.

 

Ja'far's hands are claws on Sinbad's back, marking the other man up just as much in stark red lines as he shudders and pants and groans. Whatever fuzziness in his mind now is caused by _Sinbad_ , only Sinbad, a hazy, _pleasant_ glaze that leaves him writhing, thoughtless and desperate for more no matter if Sinbad is giving him all he has. "Then--use me--until you come inside of me," is the helpless whine, his voice breaking as his hips jerk and buck, that thick, aching stretch inside of him enough to drive him mad. 

 

Even if Ja’far hadn’t given him _permission_ , Sinbad doubts there’s little else that could have happened.

 

His eyes are closed, hands bracing into the mattress to take his weight, knowing that he’s hardly safe to be around right now and knowing even better that Ja’far doesn’t _care_. He doesn’t care if he’s marked up, bruised up, aching tomorrow and twinging all over, and Sinbad makes certain (without _meaning_ to) that he _is_. His hips slap against Ja’far’s with every thrust, faster and faster, until a spark of pleasure at the base of his spine fizzles into white, shocking through his body and making him groan, convulse, slamming deep inside to spill hot and wet inside the younger man, breath ragged and desperate.

 

The hot spill of Sinbad inside of him _stings_ , making him thrash and shudder and lurch up, his fingers digging half-moons into the man's shoulders. His own orgasm is secondary--a fleeting, shuddering thing as he spills, compared to the lingering twitch and throb of Sinbad inside of him, the wet, slick mess that makes him wince and groan all at the same time, and Ja'far sags back, feeling every nerve twitch and every bone ache all the way to the surface, where his skin bruises and reddens. 

 

Sinbad lays still, the way he can’t seem to do when he’s sleeping, hearing the seconds bleed by like grains of sand in an hourglass, the only noise the sounds of the city outside the carved window. His cheek, he’s slightly aware, is pressed against Ja’far’s shoulder, and he likes it there. “Mm. I hurt you.”

 

"Good kind of hurt," is the breathless mumble to follow. Ja'far slides a hand up, resting it on the back of Sinbad's head no matter how his arm feels as boneless as the rest of him. "If you want to do it again, that's fine, too."

 

Sinbad turns his head, flicking out his tongue to lick over the healing marks he’d left with the sharp edge of a dagger. “A little later. Or you could take a turn, I’m not picky and you have a nice cock.”

 

"Maybe once I can move." Amusement flickers briefly over Ja'far's face. "Though I didn't think that was to your taste." 

 

“Depends. Not with every man, but I like it well enough. Maybe not as often as some, but…” Sinbad shrugs. “There have been some.”

 

"… Not Judal, I hope." The thought almost makes him laugh in spite of himself.

 

That draws a snort. “I think he’d pout if I asked. Or….well. Just...no.”

 

"Good. And here I thought you had corrupted him entirely," Ja'far sighs, his head flopping back.

 

“Only in the ways he demanded to be corrupted. That’s….” Sinbad lays back, thinking for a moment. “I’m not always sure he sees me as a whole man. Maybe an idea.”

 

"He's been taught to objectify people from day one. Maybe he'll grow out of it, when it stops being crammed down his throat." 

 

“I did my best to help. Crammed other things down his throat and everything.”

 

Ja'far half-heartedly punches Sinbad's shoulder. "I've known the boy since he was five, can you please refrain?" 

 

“Coming from the man who asked if I’ve taken his cock in my ass, I’m going to go ahead and call that a double standard,” Sinbad mutters, rubbing sourly at his shoulder.

 

" _That_ was to be certain about whom exactly I'm putting mine after." 

 

Sinbad rolls over, half-pinning Ja’far to the mattress. “Hmm, what if I told you it was a king? You’ll be in excellent company.”

 

Ja'far blinks up at him slowly. "You're a king's whore, are you?" 

 

“Didn’t get paid,” Sinbad says cheerfully. “Except in wine, and that’s easy enough to come by.”

 

"… I've never been paid, and yet you called me a whore on several occasions. Now who has a double standard?" 

 

“You were _working_ for someone,” Sinbad points out, and lips a slow, open-mouthed kiss to a freckled shoulder. “Doing what you’re told and doing what you want are different things. Don’t you prefer one over the other?”

 

Answering that probably shouldn't make him hesitate. "I'm not certain that I'm terribly good at doing things without orders." 

 

Sinbad raises an eyebrow. “You’re good at it here with me. Unless you have orders I don’t know about.”

 

" _You_ give orders more than you probably realize." 

 

That makes Sinbad blink, startled. “Do I? Are you saying this is less than consensual?”

 

"No, that's not it. It's more so little things… specifications." Ja'far shrugs helplessly. "It's a knee-jerk reaction, when I let it be." 

 

A second’s pause, and Sinbad lets his hand come up, trailing through Ja’far’s hair. “Do you hate it? I can try to stop.”

 

Ja'far hesitates, a frown on his lips. "… If it's you," he slowly settles upon, worried far too much about how that _sounds_ , "I like it. Besides, I don't think you could stop if you tried." 

 

“Ah. Well, then that’s okay, isn’t it?” Sinbad asks, curling an arm around Ja’far’s waist to pull him close. “It’s all right, not to be sure. We’re both still learning what makes you tick, after all.”

 

 _I know what makes me tick. It's nothing good_. 

 

Ja'far's face buries itself into Sinbad's shoulder, breathing in deep the scent of him and sweat and sex and for once, not _minding_ it. "You keep saying things like that, as if it's a long-term thing. Once we get to Kou, I shouldn't be your concern." 

 

“Stop that. I thought you were going to collect my taxes when I become king. Don’t think I’m letting you out of a promise like that.”

 

"Did I say that?" Maybe his mind isn't quite connected together yet, no matter how it feels less hazy still. "At least say Judal will be your _bigger_ concern, then." 

 

Sinbad rolls his eyes, tracing little patterns on Ja’far’s skin with a fingertip. “As if I’ll be able to properly manage him in the long term without your help. You’re the only one he listens to, you know.”

 

"… And that's not saying much," Ja'far dryly points out, and he rolls to the side, pushing Sinbad down so that he can properly sprawl over his chest, chin in his hands. "He's a brat, and too powerful for his own good. Ah--small wonder you two get along." 

 

Sinbad laughs, relaxing back and thoroughly enjoying Ja’far’s slight weight on top of him. “He’s a special brand of poorly-behaved that I can’t help but sympathize with,” he agrees. “Maybe we both just need a firm hand.”

 

"If he ends up choosing you, the world may very well end," Ja'far mutters, and he's not sure if he's joking or not. A snort, and he settles down between Sinbad's thighs. "And anyway, _Judal_ needs a firm hand. I don't know _what_ works on you." 

 

Sinbad’s eyes flash, and he shifts, letting his legs spread enough to welcome Ja’far between them. “I guess you’ll have to try everything and see what suits your purposes, then.”

 

"Asking so boldly really does paint you as a slut," Ja'far mildly tells him, though he can't help but be amused, especially when a slow wriggle makes it so obvious how Sinbad already stirs beneath him. "Unless you want to _help_ again, you're going to have to give me a minute. I don't think I have your endurance." 

 

Sinbad stretches out, lazily hooking one leg around Ja’far’s waist. “I’m in no hurry. Mmm, you’ll have to use plenty of that, though,” he murmurs, casting a pointed glance at the oil. “It’s been quite a while.”

 

Ja'far bites back the urge to make a _delicate flower, are we_ comment. Most people don't have his pain tolerance--or his tendency towards masochism, for that matter. Sinbad, especially, is obsessed with _pleasure_. Good and all, but overwhelming, though Ja'far does like the way the man shifts against him when he mouths a wet kiss over the arc of his throat, one hand grabbing for the bottle of oil to uncork it. "Is that a 'please be gentle with me' request?" he can't help but tease all the same. 

 

Sinbad throws him a mild look, wriggling slowly against Ja’far, liking the way they slide together like this, arms coming up to drag down Ja’far’s back. “It’s a…. ‘I’d like to enjoy this thoroughly’ request,” he allows, “and it’s been more than a year. Apart from that, do whatever makes you feel good, I’m sure I’ll like it.”

 

The wrap and slide of Sinbad's arms around him is good, too, and Ja'far tries to think the last time _he_ did something like this. Close to never. Closer would be bedding a woman--also probably about a year ago, and the thought makes him snort softly. "We're about the same, then," he murmurs, fingers slick enough to drip as he shifts, wriggling a hand down to drag his fingers against that tight hole before carefully pressing a pair inside. Just that first slick, hot clench around them makes Ja'far's breath quicken and sharpen. A _year_ is certainly accurate.

 

The first press of those fingers--no matter how slender and delicate--inside him is enough to make Sinbad’s eyes roll back in his head, a tense hiss coming out from between his teeth. It takes a good minute of breathing, slowly undulating his hips, before he remembers how to properly _relax_ , and even then he’s shivering, breathy, clutching Ja’far’s shoulders. He nods, swallowing hard, that odd uncomfortable _stretching_ so foreign after all this time. “More.”

 

"You say that, but you're still so tight," Ja'far mutters, his own skin hot and sweat beading at his brow just from the effort it takes just to be _careful_. His hand twists, fingers sliding inside of Sinbad, curling to _stroke_. If he's right about Sinbad, it's that the man likes being talked to as much as he likes running his own mouth during sex. "How are you even going to fit my cock in here?" he breathes, tilting his head up to catch an earring with his teeth and tug. 

 

That sends a shudder raking through Sinbad, skin prickling as his legs spread wider just at a few words and the tug to his ear, heat pooling in his abdomen, cock swelling as he shifts his hips, rolling down onto Ja’far’s hand. “Might be a tight fit,” he breathes, eyes heavy-lidded. “You’ve got a nice thick cock, I’ll have to really work at it.”

 

That's a little better. Ja'far mouths another kiss against Sinbad's neck, teeth scraping the bob of his Adam's apple as he draws his hand back just enough to add a third finger, twisting them slowly once they wriggle back inside. "With how hard you're getting, I'm starting to think you _prefer it_ when it's too much." It's easier now, to slide his fingers deeper and _rub_ , just so. "If that's the case, you're not allowed to tease _me_ about that." 

 

Sinbad lets out a noise somewhere between a groan and a plea, insistent now when he starts pushing down. “Tease you if I want,” he says with a little laugh, but it turns into a hitching grunt when Ja’far’s fingers curl just right, and he swallows hard. “Ah, just--go on.” He takes a deep breath, looking up to meet Ja’far’s eyes. “Fuck me.”

 

He doesn't need to be told twice, not when Sinbad is so _eager_. A little shiver rakes down his own spine when Ja'far pulls his hand free, grabbing for the oil again. His palm is slick when it drags over his own cock, leaving it dripping with the mess of the oil, and his hands drag up Sinbad's thighs, sliding them further apart, and back just slightly. 

 

Sinbad is still _tight_ , no matter his care. It takes less gentleness, more a firm insistent shove to slide inside those first few inches, and Ja'far hisses through his teeth, his fingers biting into the other man's skin as he sinks forward, gasping at the tense, spasming clench around him. "Good?" he manages, sweat dripping down his back from the effort it takes not to just _use him_ , especially when he can _taste_ the thud of Sinbad's pulse beneath his lips, fast and ragged.

 

Sinbad’s eyes roll back into his head with the first thrust, and he gasps, long legs wrapping tight around Ja’far’s hips, trying to pull him in _more_ no matter how the initial stretch of it makes him squirm, makes him groan. It’s too much, Ja’far’s fingers are too _small_ , his cock so much bigger, and despite the stretch of it, it feels _good_. Sinfully, obscenely good, and Sinbad can’t do anything except clutch at Ja’far, nails raking down his back as he shifts, letting the smaller man spread his legs. “G-good,” he pants, letting his head roll back. “Ah, don’t stop, it’s better when you’re moving, don’t stop--”

 

"And here I thought you were vocal when you were shoving _me_ down into the bed," Ja'far breathes, _gladly_ surrendering to the urge to move, his hands dragging up to Sinbad's hips to pull him down when he shoves upward, deep inside until their skin slaps together and he chokes on a groan. Doing it again makes his eyes roll back, and his fingers are likely to leave bruises from where they splay over the man's hips. "Maybe--I can fuck you hard enough that you forget how to _talk_." 

 

The choked noise that comes out of Sinbad’s throat is _anything_ but a protest. Ja’far is deep inside him now, deep enough that Sinbad feels twinges of being _stuffed full_ , shaky little breaths reminding him just _how long_ it’s been since he’s done this, and ah, that just makes it _better_. Golden eyes flash, opening to meet Ja’far’s, and he has to choke back a moan before gritting his teeth, hissing, “ _Try it_.”

 

He’s not usually one for pain, but if Ja’far gets this domineering, this _hard_ inside him just from a few casually placed words--the idea of him _trying_ to take Sinbad that hard makes him swell and writhe, bucking down.

 

Ja'far doesn't _try it_ \--he _does_ it, simply tightening his grasp upon Sinbad to hold him down with surprising ease as his hips fuck up long and hard, buried to the hilt again and again as he pants into the side of Sinbad's neck. He can _feel_ how hard Sinbad is, occasionally managing to buck up, grinding slickly against his stomach, but Ja'far doesn't bother with touching him. Far better is shoving his cock in as deep as he can, feeling that clench and spasm and hearing Sinbad's voice dissolve into little yelps and whines. 

 

Sinbad’s starting to think he’s underestimated either how _good_ Ja’far is at this or how _rough_ he is, and either way he _likes_ it. He likes everything about it, likes the hands holding him sternly down, likes the look on Ja’far’s face, likes the way his cock rubs against Ja’far’s belly in needy slick little trails, likes _most of all_ the way Ja’far fucks him hard, every thrust making sparks flash in his vision, making him clench down and bite his lip and ah, god, the _stretch_ of it--

 

He thinks he nods, thinks he says something, but it’s lost as he ruts down shamelessly, clawing at Ja’far’s back, urging him on, wanting nothing more than to keep feeling this way forever, than for Ja’far to keep taking him deep like this, and he doesn’t even _notice_ how close to the edge he is until he falls, coming messy and hot all over himself and Ja’far’s stomach with a low, urgent groan.

 

If he had the presence of mind to do it, Ja'far would have flipped Sinbad over in that instant, shoved his face to the bed, ground it down while he fucked him harder.

 

Just the _thought_ of that is enough, though. Ja'far shudders, biting down on a groan as Sinbad twitches and trembles beneath him, the hot, sticky mess between them making him drag a hand up, swiping through it before shoving a pair of fingers between Sinbad's lips, urgently twisting them against his tongue. The sight of _Sinbad_ like this is too much, and Ja'far's head bows, his breath catching in his throat as he shoves in deep, as deep as he can, spilling messily inside with a shiver that makes his back bow.

 

Sinbad curls his tongue around those fingers, sucking them into his mouth with a low sigh of pleasure. Ja’far is _deep_ in him, deep enough to make him a little cramping, a little uncomfortable, and that’s probably the best part. “You,” he breathes, letting spit-slick fingers fall from his mouth, “are too good at that. You’ve been holding out on me.”

 

Ja'far's eyes blink slow and languid back at him as he flops down, wiping his hand on the sheets. "You think so? It's been a long time since I've had sex with a woman, so I thought myself out of practice." 

 

Sinbad opens his mouth, then closes it again. “Is that supposed to be payback?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. “Ah, I suppose I deserved that. You should know, it had nothing to do with you being on the receiving end. I don’t think there’s any shame in that.”

 

"… It was a little bit of a joke," Ja'far allows, lips quirking up slightly. "That being said, doing it like this isn't _so_ different than being with a woman. Though I'm curious what it had to do with, if not _that_." 

 

Sinbad stretches out, wincing at the sudden slick _mess_ of himself between his legs. “Ah, it’s an old sailing tradition. I’d forgotten Masrur wasn’t born a sailor. Women are bad luck to have on board the ship, you know, and some men try to get around that by bringing a pretty male lover with them, to keep in the hold and visit whenever they’re sick of being around stinky sweaty men all day.”

 

"Mmn. I suppose that makes sense. All of you _do_ smell awful after only a pair of days, I was probably a blessing to his nose." 

 

“Hey, it’s hard to keep clean without any fresh water. You should be lucky we docked as often as we did, some of the Sea Peoples around the area don’t set foot on land for months at a time. We….” His smile fades. For a second, he’d forgotten. For a second, it had been so easy to think that in a day’s time he’d be back on the _Sindria_ , back with the family he’d chosen for himself.

 

"… If you ever come onto a country, you should name _it_ Sindria instead." Ja'far's arms fold on Sinbad's chest, and he lays his head atop them. "To honor them." 

 

Sinbad’s eyes burn, and he tightens his arms around Ja’far. “Yeah.” His voice is a little more hoarse than he’d intended, and he clears his throat, blinking. “It’s a plan.”

 

Ja'far decides, after all of that, that sleep is entirely acceptable for a few more hours.

 

What isn't acceptable is being woken by the slightest twitch of movement--not from Sinbad, whose back he is spooned against quite comfortably. No, it's someone else, and it takes Ja'far only a split second to pluck one knife from where it rests on the bed, sending it through the intruders neck before asking questions. The second is less killed, more caught around the neck by a precise toss of wire, and Ja'far yanks it tight about the bedpost, huffing out a hot, annoyed breath when the man collapses to his knees, wheezing for lack of breath. 

 

Ja'far looks at him--Al-Sarmen, without a doubt--and dread settles into the pit of his stomach before he cuts the assassin's throat. 

 

There's an odd, prickling surge of _something_ when he retrieves his blades, the wires singing when he wraps them about his arms with an odd pulse that almost feels like static electricity. "They know we're here." If the one assassin hadn't gasped for breath, it would have been an entirely silent affair. Maybe Sinbad didn't even wake.

 

Sinbad wakes, not lazy and content and curled up with Ja’far like he’d intended, but to the fresh metallic scent of blood. That’s….not expected, and he blinks a few times before coming properly awake. By that time, there’s no one up except Ja’far, who seems to have the whole matter rather well-handled. “Ah. Well, then. Who do you think they’re chasing, you or me?”

 

He shakes his head, coming further awake. It had been _nice_ having wine for the first time in weeks, last night. “Right, doesn’t matter. Let’s jump out the window.”

 

"If they know we're here, then they know we're heading towards Kou." Ja'far rewinds his wires with a shake of his head, attempting to shove aside the odd tingling sensation once more. "So much for the element of surprise."

 

“We never really had it.” Sinbad buckles on his swordbelt, and only barely remembers to put on his shirt and trousers, followed by jacket and boots and a wide array of magical jewelry. “If you’ve been around as long as they have, you know your enemy has few goals, few options, and none of the ones they take should really surprise you that much.” He pauses. Something’s….not quite right. “What’s wrong, what is it?”

 

"It's nothing." It's definitely _something_. "And we had more of a jump on them than you would think, prior to this. At least, I did. You're a little more predictable." 

 

Sinbad shrugs. “Predictable doesn’t bother me. _Stupid_ bothers me.” He reaches over, catching Ja’far’s arm. “Stop. Look at me. Did they get to you before I woke up? Put anything in your head?”

 

"They didn't even get to utter a word, I--" Sinbad _touching_ him--and specifically, his arm with wires firmly wound about it--is enough to make that prickling, not-quite-electric sensation return tenfold, his hair standing on end rather like it would if a lightning storm were heading their way. "… Just lightheaded. Woke up too quickly, moved too quickly, something." 

 

There’s something wrong, and even Sinbad can feel it, miniature lightnings racing up his arm, setting off alarm bells as it goes. “Your hair…” 

 

The wire shocks him, and he holds on more tightly, ignoring that, letting the part of Baal that lives in him deal with that kind of pain. “Take these off, now!” He’s not doing it right, ripping at things that cut his hands, but there’s almost a hum in the air, something rising, and fast.

 

The urgency doesn't _quite_ click, though Ja'far hisses when a wire cuts into his own arm courtesy of Sinbad's pulling. "Will you _stop it_ , that's not how you--" Ah, yes, that's _definitely_ dizziness now, and Ja'far lurches sideways, head knocking against Sinbad's shoulder. Somehow he keeps the presence of mind to do as he's told, thinking maybe it's _important_ now, and one arm's wires slump off, attached blade following, with the second coming off in short order.

 

Sinbad ignores the blood making his hands slippery, checking Ja’far’s arms as the wires come off, picking him bodily up and tossing the man over his shoulder, going with his initial plan of jumping out the window. It doesn’t _quite_ work, given that there’s a balcony he hadn’t seen, but after a quick vault over that, he hits the ground running, glad the early morning means there’s little obstructing the roads.

 

Ja'far takes that opportunity to take an unplanned nap. 

 

He doesn't mean to. It's more that he can't quite _not_ do it, what with how heavy his head feels, and by the time he wakes, the sun is high and _hot_.

 

"Where?" he mumbles, grimacing at the lingering throb in his temples. It feels rather like someone has taken a chunk out of his magoi and chewed on it thoroughly, if he's going to properly identify that drained sensation. 

 

“Oasis.” Sinbad brushes a hand over Ja’far’s forehead, sighing in relief as he takes another bite of an apple, offering it to Ja’far. “You kept wriggling out of the shade, but it feels like your fever’s broken now. We lost our pursuers a couple days ago.”

 

"… A couple of _days_ ago?" Ja'far tries not to think of time loss, and instead sags back, taking the apple and taking a slow, careful bite. "I don't remember anything. What happened?" 

 

“I woke up to a couple dead men in the inn, and you were buzzing. We ran.” Sinbad shrugs. “I got a horse. We ran some more. They got mean, I got clever, we got away, we’re at an oasis.”

 

"Go back to the buzzing part." Ja'far pauses, and blinks down at his for-once bare arms. "You better have all of my weaponry somewhere or god help you." 

 

“They made you buzz.” Sinbad shrugs. “Every time I touched your wires, lightning crawled up my arms. I figured it was some kind of magic poison, since you’re immune to the regular kind.”

 

"… I can almost entirely assure you that those assassins were goi at the _very best_." A deep breath, and Ja'far tries not to chuck the apple core at Sinbad's head. "You didn't _leave it all_ , did you?" 

 

Sinbad snorts. “It had my blood on it. I’m not so careless as to leave something like that where my enemies are chasing me.” He thumps a saddlebag. “Sealed with locks and magic, supposedly untraceable. Everything you had, but it’s not coming out until you give me some answers.”

 

 _"What_ answers? I barely even remember anything past killing those grunts. Just that once I did, it felt like--you know when a storm is about to come by, and it makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up? Or when you touch something metal and get shocked? Like that." Ja'far sags back, annoyed. "And now I'm tired and it feels like something chewed me up and spit me back out." 

 

Sinbad shrugs. “Obviously this was a set-up. You were supposed to kill them, and….” He worries his lip. “Something in them was transferred to you. Anyone in Al-Sarmen capable of something like that?”

 

"Probably, but don't you think it would have had more of an effect? As in killing me _faster?_ They've learned by now, for sure, regarding my tenacity. Will you just give me my things back? I feel naked without them." 

 

One eyebrow raises, but apart from that, Sinbad doesn’t move. “I don’t really feel like carrying you for another few days. If you don’t know whether they’ll do it again, you don’t get them back. It was hardly a freak accident.”

 

Ja'far lowly growls. "So don't carry me, leave me to die. Just give me my blades back. Minus the wires, if you think _that's_ the issue." 

 

Sinbad’s eyes narrow. “You’re acting like an addict. Why would you want something back that could kill you the second you touch it?”

 

"You don't _know_ they're going to kill me." 

 

“They’re probably cursed! You’re not touching them until you can tell me what knocked you out!”

 

"They're not _cursed!_ You imbecile, my rukh is already mostly black, what could that _possibly_ do to me even if they were?!"

 

“You can’t mess with _lightning_ , you idiot!” Sinbad snaps, positioning himself between Ja’far and the saddlebag. “It’s one of the most dangerous elements there is, that’s why I use Baal’s equip to _sink enemy ships_! Did you forget what Masrur’s household vessel did to your Weapons Dealer?”

 

Ah.

 

That _name_ makes something ring within him, and even without _touching_ his blades, there's a little shiver that goes down Ja'far's spine, all too reminiscent of that same, prickling feeling of electricity. He swallows, slumping back. "They're not cursed, idiot. Now give them back."

 

Sinbad looks from Ja’far back to his saddlebags, frowning. “You know what it is, don’t you?” He pulls out the small leather-and-wood box, handing it over. “If you’re sure you know what you’re doing…”

 

Ja'far _really_ doesn't know what he's doing, but he quickly takes the box all the same, and the rush of _relief_ at being to hold the things in his hands again is sharp and immediate. Another ripple of electricity runs up his spine--oddly sort of exhilarating, less draining or terrifying--and Ja'far flips one blade back into place on his arm before winding the wire up the extent of it. "See? I'm not dead."

 

Sinbad watches warily. It’s less the blades that makes him wary, less even the idea that those blades could kill him, nearly did _kill_ him that makes him suck in a breath--

 

And more the fact that he feels oddly comforted by the sight of them on Ja’far’s arms, in a way that has nothing to do with seeing a companion armed properly. 

 

And he’s felt such a thing before.

 

He exhales slowly, brushing a hand over the hilt of his sword, and knows for certain. “Ah. So that’s how it is.”

 

Carefully, Ja'far spares a nod, and by the time he moves to the second blade, he's a bit dizzy once more. He definitely takes it back--he does't want this, even thinking it would be useful was _wrong_ \--"I think," he warily says, biting his lower lip briefly, "they've a proper name now."

 

“The dizziness goes away.” Sinbad can’t help but feel a little excited, a little possessive, and he shifts closer, knowing the name intently as well as he’s known all of them, spoken into his head in a djinn’s resonant tones. “Balalark Sei.”

 

Oh. It sounds really _nice_ , coming from Sinbad.

 

"… Balalark Sei," Ja'far quietly repeats, and he flops back  with a tired, incredulous laugh. "Of _all_ the things…"

 

“At least they’re not cursed,” Sinbad offers, something like a baffled grin on his face. “Or magically poisoned. I guess this means my djinn have accepted you as part of, well, me.”

 

"Masrur said… only their most trusted followers could have this happen." Ja'far frowns in open confusion and pleasure all at once. "I helped conquer so many dungeons, and not once…"

 

Sinbad can’t help the way he beams, wrapping his arms around Ja’far and squeezing hard, now that he knows he won’t get a jolt of electricity straight to his heart for doing it. “You know what this means. They have no hold on you now.”

 

"That's not _necessarily_ true--" Ja'far protests, no matter how he's squished quite firmly into Sinbad's chest, and his voice is muffled by the bulk of the man's shoulder. "I don't think having a household vessel has anything to do with avoiding them--unless there's something I'm missing?" Ah, god, he hates not knowing how to work things. 

 

“It _means_ ,” Sinbad says gently, not letting go in the slightest, “that you’re a part of my household. Think about what that implies. I’m your master, for one thing, and that you’re loyal to me, and that I trust you.”

 

"But…"

 

The protest dies on his lips, and Ja'far sags a bit, the warmth of hearing that Sinbad _trusts him_ , that _he_ is his master, not a faceless, shapeless Father enough to spread tingling relief all the way down to his toes. "But… they're still _there_. I can't hear them right now, but that doesn't mean anything."

 

Sinbad shrugs. “What if you never hear them again? You don’t _know_ that they’ll start up again.” He trails a finger down over the wires, careful this time not to cut himself. “Maybe this will protect you. I’d like that.”

 

"… I'd like that, too, but forgive me if I am not as much an optimist." Ja'far sighs, shutting his eyes as he simply lays his head against Sinbad's chest. "I hardly feel worthy of this," he quietly admits. "If I somehow betray you again, then I _know_ I'm not worthy." 

 

“That’s not for you to decide.” Sinbad lets his hand move up, gently stroking through Ja’far’s silky hair. “My djinn chose you. It’s for him to decide.” He grins. “Maybe he chose you the night I kissed you.”

 

"If you're talking about the time on the ship, I certainly hope not," Ja'far mutters, skin flushing slightly. "Djinn can be wrong." _I just hope it's not._

 

Sinbad shrugs. “The last person Baal chose was Masrur. He makes good decisions.” He leans down, pressing a quick kiss to the top of Ja’far’s head. “No arguing. You’re just trying to get out of calling me Master.”

 

Ja'far opens his mouth, then shuts it again. "I'm not calling you that, no matter what." 

 

“So disobedient. I spanked you once, I can do it again.”

 

"Charming. Considering our last roll around, I can't help but think that's something you'd enjoy me doing to you instead."

 

That makes him laugh. “Why do you think it must be all one or the other? Can’t someone enjoy both? Someone can, by the way. I do. You seem to as well.”

 

"I was just _joking_ ," Ja'far sniffs, pulling back to fold his arms. "I think you'd like it too much. That defeats the purpose."

 

“I don’t see how. You liked it fine when I spanked you, that didn’t make it any less enjoyable for me.” Sinbad gives Ja’far another squeeze, then lets him go. “We should be moving soon. Last of the daylight, then travel at night, we’ve lost a great deal of time from Baal’s little antics.”

 

Ja'far nods as he steps back, absently thumbing one of the blades wrapped tight to his arms before leaving them be. "The sooner we get to Kou and retrieve Judal, the better. I'm not sure if they will be expediting anything or not, now that they know we're coming." 

 

“I’ve been throwing them off a bit, the past few days. Leaving a false, trail, bribing a few friends to do the same.” Sinbad stretches out his arms, hopping to his feet as he brushes off his trousers. “Some lead right to Kou, some go in another direction. I thought it would be suspicious if I left false trails to everywhere _but_ Kou.”

 

"Sometimes, I forget you have half a brain." Ja'far stretches in kind, and grabs for the rest of his daggers, unceremoniously hiking up his robes to strap them back into place on his thighs. "Maybe they think I've run for it. Most Al-Sarmen agents would." 

 

“Most Al-Sarmen agents don’t have me,” Sinbad says, absolutely no modesty in his voice as he swings up onto the horse. “Front or back? I’ll let you choose today whether you want to be cuddled or spoon me.”

 

Ja'far's expression shifts wry, but he nevertheless swings himself up in front. It's more comfortable for both of them, really, and a better balance on the horse itself. "Don't 'cuddle' me in this heat." 

 

“I’ll cuddle you if I like. You’re part of my household now.” Sinbad takes the reins comfortably around Ja’far, and true to his words, leans down to kiss Ja’far’s neck before kicking the horse into action, leaving the relative cool of the oasis behind.


	10. Chapter 10

Kouen is not a stupid man.

 

Sometimes he thinks it would be easier to be one, unable to see the people in his world being moved about like pieces on a chess board, knowing himself to be the hidden king, and the idea of it makes him shudder very deep down where no one can see. He can see the way Al-Sarmen moves, his supposed _friends_ , and it doesn’t bother him that they’re out to get something from him. Everyone is, in any alliance. 

 

What bothers him is that they’d sent people he likes.

 

It’s why he enlists his brothers’ help, why Ha distracts the agent with quick words and a bright smile while Mei switches the potion out for simple syrup, an hour before Kouen sneaks into Judal’s room. 

 

Judal is barely stirring, free of the drug’s influence for the first time in months, and Kouen sits on the bed, brushing the hair from the Magi’s eyes. _You should have just picked me. Would I have been so bad a king? What do you know that I don’t?_

 

“Judal. Can you wake up a little?”

 

For a moment, the words float through his mind as if he's still underwater. Everything is still a bit of a bleary haze, achy and bogged down, but it's more of a lingering effect than anything, and once he's fully awake, it's not _nearly_ so bad.

 

Besides, Kouen is petting him, sort of. He's warm, and Judal can't help but butt his head against the palm of his hand, turning slowly to the side to flop against the man's hip--or well, he tries to. The one chain that links a wrist to a bedpost hinders the movement slightly, and Judal whines in protest, eyes cracking open as he frowns. "En?" Huh. It's been _awhile_ since he's seen En.

 

Kouen scoots forward, letting Judal flop onto him despite the restraints. No use tipping his hand and letting Al-Sarmen know he’s in here by messing with them, not yet. “It’s me. How are you feeling?”

 

"Weiiiird." That's an understatement. Judal blinks blearily, and he properly sets his head against Kouen's thigh, his pupils still a little too-dilated when he looks up. "Everything feels weird… you're warm, though," he murmurs, eyes sliding half-shut. 

 

“You’ll feel less weird soon. The drugs they’ve been giving you should wear off in an hour.” Kouen strokes the side of Judal’s face, a pang of longing for something long gone going through him. “You can sleep it off a little more if you want.”

 

"Don't wanna. You're here." 

 

Judal promptly wriggles closer--as much closer as he can get, at any rate, and makes a slow, pawing grab at Kouen's chest. "Why haven't you been visiting me? I missed you. Where's Ja'far?" 

 

“Ja’far is out on a mission. Your new keeper is less….indulgent.” Kouen’s face is sour, and there’s little doubt of his opinion of the new keeper Al-Sarmen had sent. “We might not have too long, Ha and Mei are distracting him.”

 

"Don't like him." Judal huffs, rolling over a bit when his world starts becoming clearer by the minute, even though he still feels oddly like he's clawing his way through water or something even more… gooey. Really weird. "Wish you had been on that ship, too," he murmurs thoughtfully. "You might be a good pirate."

 

“But I’m not a pirate.” Kouen’s fingers thread through Judal’s hair, and his voice is quiet, and a little sad. “I’m to be a king. I….”

 

He trails off, and something in his chest aches a bit. “You’re never going to choose me, are you?”

 

Judal pauses, a frown slowly pulling at his lips, and he leans his head into Kouen's hand. "… It's not that I don't like you a lot, you know. It doesn't have anything to do with that." 

 

Something sinks inside Kouen, some last, vague hope. His hand doesn’t pause in his petting, but his voice is a little hoarse as he asks, “Am I just not good enough? I can conquer more dungeons. I can make myself a king, you’ve only ever had to _ask_.”

 

"It's not that either! It's--it doesn't have anything to do with that, or you. Well, I mean, it does, but not… like you're thinking." Judal's brow furrows, teeth worrying into his lower lip. "I think you'd be a really good king. But… something tells me you'd be better, if I _didn't_ pick you." 

 

“Better than Sinbad?” Kouen asks simply, quietly.

 

Judal blinks slowly. "He's a pirate. He's not a king. I think on a scale of kingliness, you're better at king-y stuff by far." 

 

“So you’re not choosing at all?” Kouen frowns, and his petting gets a little more affectionate. “Al-Sarmen’s not going to leave you alone until you do, you know. Probably not after either.”

 

"I like Sinbad… but he's not good either right now," Judal says with a nod as he wriggles again, eyes lidding beneath the easy stroke of Kouen's hand. "I don't know what they want me to do. They're really scary lately, and I just… I don't _like_ being cooped up in here. I wanna go be a pirate again." 

 

“Sinbad’s coming for you.” Kouen knows it, as much as he knows anything. “He’s going to kill a whole lot of people to get to you, he’s _really_ angry about his ship sinking.” He worries at his lower lip, looking down at the Magi, at the boy he’d carried on his shoulder, the one who’d climbed up his arm as if he weighed nothing at all and sat on his lap long after it was appropriate just to see his face change color. “Do you think he’ll take good care of you, if you go be a pirate?”

 

Judal pushes himself up onto an elbow at that, no matter how he wobbles. "I don't want him to _kill_ anyone. I like Kou, and all the people here, especially in the palace." His frown deepens. "He always took care of me before. Come be a pirate with me, sometimes I get bored and he's busy." 

 

“You know you’re asking to leave Al-Sarmen, right?” Kouen asks cautiously. “Because….” He looks around the room, knowing Mei’s had it swept for listening spells, and lowers his voice. “If you really want to go, I’ll get you out, and make sure no one dies.”

 

"… I don't like them. I…" A shiver runs down his spine, and Judal flops back down, eyes tired before he shuts them again. "My rukh feels weird all the time now, and it hurts. Now that Ja'far isn't here, they're all mean." Not that Ja'far was ever exactly _personable_ , but he was a _better_. "I really don't want anyone to die, and it seems like if I stay, that's gonna happen."

 

Kouen nods. He can, at least, be decisive. “All right. Then I want you to do something for me, all right? You have to pretend to sleep more for the rest of the day. And don’t tell anyone about this.” He closes his eyes, fastens his hands around the chain, and _pulls_. One link comes free, and he pushes it mostly back into place, exhaling. “Just pretend to be a sleep all day, Mei’s spell won’t last forever. I’ll come get you once it gets dark.”

 

"You're serious? But--" Judal makes a grabbing motion for Kouen's robes again, worry clear as day over his face. "Are you gonna come with me? What if they find out it's you that helped me leave?"

 

Kouen firms his jaw. There are some things worth his ambition, really. “Then Hakuyuu will be a good king. Go on, lie down, I have to go.”

 

"I'm not gonna let them hurt you," Judal insists, and he clings onehandedly to Kouen's arm. "I told you, I _like you_. Even… even if you don't come with me, I'll make sure nothing happens to you." _Somehow_. Sinbad can understand that idea, surely, so he'd _help_.

 

Cute, that Judal fancies himself Kouen’s protector. Judal’s always been pretty cute. “I like you, too. That’s why I’m helping you.” Kouen squeezes Judal’s hand. “What was it like? Running around and not having to listen to anyone?”

 

Judal's nose wrinkles. "I still had to l listen to people. Ja'far's _always_ bossy. And Sinbad still tells me what to do sometimes, but he says it's to keep me safe, so… mostly I listened, especially after I made a storm and that was a bad idea." 

 

“But you weren’t having to wear what they tell you, and go where they tell you, and _be_ what they tell you, and no one was drugging you or trying to make you choose, right?” Kouen brushes his thumb over the back of Judal’s hand. “Sounds like the life you’ve always wanted.”

 

"Well, yeah, that's all true…" Judal agrees, his eyes lidding as he switches his grip around to squeeze Kouen's hand back. "Girls are bad luck to have on the ship," he very seriously says, "but you can still come back and visit Hakuei and everything. You know, if you come."

 

“Look at you, talking like a pirate already.” Kouen’s voice is light, but his heart twists at the idea of not having Ei there, Ei to come home to, Ei waiting for him as soon as she comes of age, Ei waiting to hear his poetry in the gardens. He’s not _going_ , never cared about being a pirate, but just the idea of not seeing her turn to see his approach, smiling at the sight of him, makes him cold. “Lie still now. Don’t get up for any reason. I’ll be back after sundown.”

 

"… All right," is the eventual, reluctant reply, and Judal sighs as he flops back down. _Still wish you'd come, though._

 

~~

 

Sinbad had expected Kou to figure they’re coming.

 

He hadn’t expected Al-Sarmen to react like _this_.

 

The walls of the palace are as ready for him as any place has ever been, more secure than any dungeon, and with so many guards that Sinbad writes off a frontal assault. Even if he could get in, and he’s _fairly_ certain he can, getting Judal out without any of them getting injured sounds like a shot too long, even for him.

 

He grabs Ja’far’s arm, taking him to a small tavern instead, trying to regroup over a plate of food. “Right,” he mutters. “You said you had plans for getting me into Kou, and they worked. Any for how to get in to the Palace?”

 

It's less a surprise to Ja'far exactly how _fortified_ the palace is, but no less a disheartening one. Sinbad is a lot of things, but an assassin he isn't, so sneaking about--especially sneaking _out_ , with Judal in tow--isn't exactly a task Ja'far thinks him capable of. "How good are you at blending in with the sand?" is his dry retort at he picks at his food. 

 

“I owned a beige shirt once,” Sinbad offers. “Apart from that--well, you’ve seen me in the desert. Could you do it?” He takes a swig of beer, churning the situation over in his head. “Judal trusts you, you’re far stealthier than I could ever hope to be, and you know the place like the back of your hand.”

 

"… Yes," Ja'far carefully begins, "but the palace is also crawling with Al-Sarmen right now. There's a good chance one of them is a higher ranking magician, and that simply won't bode well at all. Perhaps I can serve as a distraction, and you can sweep him off his feet through the window." 

 

“I’m a far more distracting distraction,” Sinbad points out. “You, they’d either shoot down immediately or try to tinker with your brain. You know they have orders to capture and try to turn me, so they’ll be at least marginally more cautious about taking me prisoner. I’ll be the distraction, you go in.”

 

Ja'far sighs, briefly shutting his eyes in irritation. "You're missing the point. If something goes wrong, Judal doesn't want to go with me. He wants to go with _you_. So you get him, and I'll deal with anyone that gets in your way." 

 

“Unacceptable.” Sinbad takes a big bite, waving a hand in dismissal. “I don’t trust you to work hard enough to get out of there alive.”

 

A blank stare follows that. "I can assure you I have no desire to die just yet. Either way, though, this isn't about me." 

 

“So you think.” Sinbad reaches across the table, a sudden urgency in his expression, his voice, as he grips Ja’far’s shoulders. His eyes are intent, and he says quietly, “We’re getting out of this. Both of us. No matter what happens, we’re getting out of this, and you’re coming with me forever.”

 

Ja'far blinks, frowning down at the hands on his shoulders before looking back up to hesitantly meet Sinbad's eyes. "But you don't _know_ that. And it's better not to plan for things like that, in situations like this. It's better if you manage to get Judal out, regardless of everything else." 

 

Sinbad nods slowly. “I do plan on getting Judal out. I’m going to. And you’re coming with us, and I’m not letting that go. I’ll find some little island somewhere and make a kingdom, Judal will shape it with the forces of creation, and you’ll do my paperwork. That’s the way this story ends.”

 

"But--" _You don't_ know _that._ He almost says it again, though to not risk sounding like a wind up doll, Ja'far shuts his mouth, his frown deepening. This is supposed to be about Judal, not him. He has made it about Judal the second he met up with Sinbad again--or tried to, at the very least, so for this to be brought up now… 

 

It makes his heart clench in his chest, and Ja'far sinks back, drawing in a slow, steady breath. "I was supposed to _kill you_ , you know. That was my assignment, after retrieving Judal. Even if we get out of this both alive, how can you trust that will never happen, through Al-Sarmen's control?" 

 

Sinbad takes another sip of beer, shrugging. “Lots of people will try to kill me in my life. Not the man I’m sitting with here, now. If you ever do, I’ll know it was either none of your control, or I’ve done something so bad I deserve death.” His eyes don’t waver. “This isn’t optional. I’m leaving Kou with you.”

 

Ah. Well. 

 

Ja'far's eyes slide sideways, turning the words over in his mind as he tries not to start visibly worrying at his lip or letting any of the dozen thoughts he has play over his face. It's _stupid_. Sinbad's an idiot, and Ja'far has known that from the very start. This is simply the icing on the cake, apparently. 

 

At the same time, it's… good.

 

He sucks in a slow breath. "… If I can't kill you," he quietly says after another moment, "then at least let me protect you."

 

The words have an element of finality, of _contract_ to them, and Sinbad nods once, decisively. “You have yourself a deal.” 

 

He pauses.

 

“As long as you still do my paperwork.”

 

"If it continues to be the mess that it was before, then no one else is _capable_."

 

There’s a plan in place, somewhat, at least now that Ja’far has promised not to die. Sinbad still isn’t _thrilled_ with it, but at least they’ll both be in danger, and that makes it a bit more okay. 

 

At least, he’s fine with it until they start down the street, and a hooded man grabs Ja’far by the arm and yanks him into an alley, holding him by the throat. “Tell him to stand down,” the man says to Sinbad, a large sack over his shoulder. “You know who I am.”

 

There aren't many people that can grab him and haul him around so easily, and for a moment, even Ja'far is stunned, a sharp grab for a dagger at his hip thwarted when he actually takes a split second to _look_. 

 

"… _Kouen?_ " Ja'far's hand slides away from the dagger in short order, and he sags back, blinking when the sack on the man's shoulder sort of… _wiggles_. "Sinbad--don't hurt him," he quickly adds.

 

Kouen doesn’t pull the hood back from his face, but his hand relaxes, and he lets it fall from Ja’far’s neck. “Good, you still know me. I….” His eyes dart to the man with murder in his eyes, and he can’t help the frustrated little growl. _I still like you_ , Judal says in his mind, and Ja’far tells him they work well together.

 

 _At least Ei likes me best. Probably,_ he thinks, a little miserably. He hands over the sack, warning, “Don’t drop it.”

 

"Is that…" Ja'far trails off, pushing away from the wall as he reaches out to idly touch the sack in question. It _kicks_ , and Ja'far stares, looking from it and then back to Kouen. "Do you have any idea what you're doing? This could get you _killed."_

 

“And you’re a fine one to preach caution,” Kouen snaps, getting more annoyed by the second. “I can make decisions for myself too. Maybe I don’t want the power given to me by keeping this thing drugged and prisoner.” His face darkens, and he pulls his hood further up. “He’s never going to choose me anyway, he might as well be free.”

 

"'m not a thin'--" 

 

Ja'far calmly pretends he doesn't hear Judal's protests. "The _difference_ is you're walking right back into lion's den, having made these decisions," he lowly points out. "Al-Sarmen is going to know it's _you_ that brought Judal from the palace, and I… you _know_ I have no power to do anything about it." He swallows, glancing aside as his voice drops. "No matter how thankful I am. Why are you all such idiots?" 

 

“Because you’re always saying you’re the smart one,” Kouen retorts, “so why should we try? Besides, I should have listened to Ren and Mei and Yuu years ago, we’re going to force them out of Kou. Be our own country, not their puppet. Father’s never liked them.”

 

"Well, good luck with that now! Do you have _any_ idea how thoroughly Al-Sarmen is entrenched within your government and finances?" Ja'far hisses back. "My god, Kouen, what do you think you're going to do? Walk up to each agent and run them through? You don't even know half of the people that _are_ part of Al-Sarmen." 

 

“Unless you’re volunteering to stay and help,” Kouen says dryly, “I suggest you worry more about how to get _this_ past them and back to your ship, Captain.”

 

Sinbad hefts the sack experimentally, raising an eyebrow. “He’s right, we should go.”

 

There's that wave of irritation again. 

 

No, it isn't quite irritation. It's… well, whatever it is, it makes his head hurt, and makes stress bubble up more sharply than ever. Ja'far sucks in a slow breath, and he yanks open the bag from his hip, pulling out what appears to be a pot of ink and a quill. "Go, I'll catch up," he firmly tells Sinbad, and turns his attention back to Kouen. "Give me your arm. I'm going to write down the names of the higher officials that you don't know about, at least. This ink has a spell on it, so it'll disappear unless exposed to certain magics, so keep a good magician at your side and read it properly later before you wash it off."  

 

Kouen’s mouth twitches, and he holds out his arm, watching Sinbad disappear from the mouth of the alley, sack in tow. “We’re all going to miss you, you know. Me especially.”

 

"God forbid if you don't have anyone to wake you from your dozing to go recite poems in the garden," Ja'far mutters, pushing up Kouen's cloak and robes to carefully begin writing out each name. Even if he says that, his chest does tighten a bit, and Ja'far heaves a sigh. "Don't think about me. Get your country in order, don't let Al-Sarmen turn you or anyone else, and just… wait for the day you can form an alliance with _that_ idiot's country," he adds, a jerk of his head over his shoulder following. 

 

Kouen raises an eyebrow. “He’s really doing it, then? Judal seemed to doubt he was fit to be a king, but….I mean, why else would he follow the man around half the world like a sad puppy? I think he’s already chosen, whether he wants to admit it or not.” His other hand reaches out, clasping Ja’far’s shoulder. “Take care of yourself? I know you aren’t good at that, but make an effort.”

 

"He's no king… yet," Ja'far murmurs, finishing the last name before drawing back and shaking his quill off with a sigh as the words fade on Kouen's skin. "I think you're right about Judal. That's not why I'm taking him from you, though. You know that." Ja'far glances up, frowning. "And I take care of myself just fine." 

 

Kouen gives him a little shove. “Go. You should try and be happy, if you can. Not everyone can, in this world.” Ah, that would make a nice poem. Maybe Ei will like it. No, there’s war to think about now.

 

"Keep a magician by your side," Ja'far insists again, hesitation marking his steps when he finally does turn. He _shouldn't_ be hesitant at all, but of all the people he's worked with--no, more properly, _known_ within the Kou Empire… "And think less about poems for five seconds." 

 

That sours Kouen’s mood a bit, but he inclines his head nonetheless, a hand rising to stroke his beard contemplatively. Yes, that’s a good final image to leave Ja’far with.

 

Ja'far gives him a last, put out stare before turning on his heel entirely and disappearing into the night. _Honestly_ , of all the people in the world, Kouen certainly admires his facial hair like none other. 

 

It's endearing, if he squints.

 

More important than the odd, worried pang in his chest at leaving the man behind is catching up with Sinbad, however, and Ja'far does so in short order, his sigh at the sack still thrown over  the man's shoulder announcing his presence. "A rather inelegant way to transport something this important, I think." 

 

“The cargo enjoys it,” Sinbad says with a grin. “I’m transporting bait. Giant worms. Very wriggly. Need to be tickled just right.”

 

"Worms aren't ticklish," Ja'far deadpans, and the sack _kicks_ again, wriggling within Sinbad's hold. "Whatever. Let's just get to the ship already and leave as soon as we can--Kouen isn't going to get out of this cleanly, and neither are we, at this rate." 

 

“Then let’s make certain his efforts are worth something.” Sinbad tugs on Ja’far’s arm, and starts striding through the streets, not appearing to move very quickly, but covering ground at a rapid pace nonetheless.

 

That’s when he sees his ship bobbing gently in the harbor.

 

He squints to see any sign of Sharrkan at the wheel, narrowing his eyes.

 

A smear of blood winds its way across the deck, ending in a crumpled heap of a dozen bodies piled together, at the feet of one tall, black-robed man. 

 

To think they'd have any, _any_ hope of a clean getaway is laughable. Ja'far isn't sure why he hoped so dearly for it. 

 

"Assassin." Isnan's drawl cuts through the night's air, the slick drag of his scythe sliding through blood following as he casually lifts it. "Lovely of you, to bring the Oracle right back to us after he'd been stolen away." 

 

Ja'far's swallow is a slow, measured one, and his blades are cold in his hands, fingers twitching at the ready. "I am not bringing him to _you_." 

 

"At least you admit your disobedience this time. That's a good first step." Isnan steps over the bodies at his feet, his head tilting. "And you, Sinbad--you're proving to be _much_ more trouble than you're worth." 

 

“I was about to say the same about you.” Sinbad lets his hand fall to his sword, then stops. The cold rage in him now isn’t the sort of thing Baal works with, not really. It isn’t heroics that entrance him now. Slowly, he hands the bag over to Ja’far, one last test. “Go, if you’re going. Otherwise I’m going to put an end to this.”

 

The deposit of Judal solidly into his arms shakes Ja'far from one trance--worried, stressed, rapidly attempting to plan--and what feels like another: mostly _cold_. 

 

Looking up at Isnan, the smirk on his face, and Ja'far can't quite breathe. He can't think, either, over the sudden, sharp pain across his temples, and he takes a step back, his arms tightening about Judal in the damned sack until he hears the Magi _squeak_. 

 

_Go on. He bid you to return the Oracle, so do it._

 

Ja'far's legs shake, and when his mind wills him to move forward, the flash of a blade dropping back onto his hand is somehow faster, somehow _clarifying_ to his thoughts for the briefest of moments. He twists, the lift of one foot up quick and precise, and with only a tremble of hesitation, the honed edge of his blade rips across the back of his ankle, cutting painfully, _debilitatingly_ deep before he topples over, ignoring the yelp that escapes from Judal. "Sin, kill him!" Ja'far brokenly insists, and he twists back, hand trembling and fully prepared to cut his other tendon if he has to. From the aching in his head, the thudding of his pulse--"I _can't_ \-- _"_

 

Sinbad hadn’t expected Ja’far to go so _far_ , but there’s a savage glee in the fact that Ja’far _hadn’t gone_ , hadn’t delivered Judal to his enemy, had made his _own_ choice. Silvery power washes over him, and he barely hears the screams of the people on the wharf as he rises into the air, clothes shredded, feathers rippling over his body as his eyes flash. 

 

Rarely has his sense of purpose ever been so cold, or so clear. 

 

Wind roars in his ears, but he doesn’t hear it, any more than he’d heard the screams of his men.

 

He doesn’t hear his own voice, screaming, “ _Foraz Zora_!”

 

He doesn’t hear his ship being ripped apart, but he sees it, in a torrent of tornadoes, shattering to dust. 

 

He fancies that in all of it, he hears Isnan scream, just once.

 

Then it’s gone, and there’s nothing left but a tiny doll, washing gently against the shore as Sinbad sinks down.

 

Ja'far shudders, the pull and desire to take Judal _elsewhere_ , back into the confines of the palace lessening only marginally, and he yanks at the ties on the sack, pulling it down as he rolls off of the lump that is Judal. "Go step on it," he hurriedly insists, giving the teenager a shove. "Now." 

 

Judal, thank god, doesn't hesitate save for to nod, and he scrambles from the sack, darting off the docks and finding the doll in short order, his bare heel grinding down into it until it shatters into dusty, delicate porcelain. Only _then_ does the pounding in Ja'far's head lessen, and he flops down with a groan.

 

Sinbad hits the ground, and grabs Judal hard around the waist, moving to pick Ja’far up with his other arm, lifting him onto his hip. “Come on. We’re getting out of here. Judal, pick a ship.”

 

"Umm--" Judal, in the process of clawing his way up Sinbad's side to 'sit' on his shoulder (really, he's floating for a better view), peers around and frowns. "That one. It's a trade ship, I recognize it. I bet there's already food."

 

"Is that all you care about?" Ja'far crossly mutters, wincing as he twists within Sinbad's hold. "Put me down for just a second, let me bind this damned scratch--" 

 

"Hey, look there are people swimming," Judal idly remarks.

 

“That’s not a _scratch_ , you almost cut your damned foot off, you’re _not_ walking on it. But I can’t steal a ship while I’m carrying both of you in a hurry, so….Judal, float him, will you?” 

 

Sinbad barely looks away from his goal, but he _does_ cast a glance down into the water, worried for a moment that it’s damned Isnan after all, doll or no doll.

 

His chest twists.

 

“Oy! Captain!” Sharrkan waves his arms, sinking as he does, only to bob up again. “Captain! Over here! Don’t leave us here!”

 

"We're not dead yet!" Spartos insistently adds, a little frantic as he grabs briefly onto Sharrkan to keep from floundering in the water even further. 

 

"… Just put me down," Ja'far groans, about as far from interested in being floated about as anything. "Float _them_ , out of the water, while I at least wrap this thing up. I know I'm not going to walk on it, that's the _point_ ," he adds snappishly. 

 

Sinbad sets Ja’far gently on the deck, commandeering the ship in a matter of seconds--funny, how the men seemed so willing to leave peaceably after they’d seen Sinbad rip another ship to shreds in the space of seconds. 

 

He can’t help the grin on his face, the shattering _relief_ that goes through him at seeing Spartos and Sharrkan alive and on board, and the hugs he gives them are bone-crushing. “Right! Judal, whip us up a wind--a small one. New ship, new problems, let’s find them out as fast as we can! Hoist the sails, weigh anchor!”

 

He kneels next to Ja’far as the two men run off, touching his face gently. “You did good. I’ll be back as soon as we’re at sea.”

 

"It's fine." And for the first time in awhile, it _is_. Being able to _stop something_ lifts a dozen weights off of his shoulders, even though he knows they'll be back later, that it might happen _again_ \--but that's a set of problems for another day, for once. Ja'far exhales a soft breath, unable to stop himself from leaning into Sinbad's touch, however fleeting. "I'm not going anywhere--"

 

Except, apparently, straight into Sinbad's chest when a 'small' wind makes the ship lurch rather abruptly forward. Judal, perched in mid-air, looks _anything_ but displeased with himself. 

 

Sinbad grins, sketching Judal a quick salute, and wraps an arm around Ja’far, turning towards the horizon. The ship has a name, he sees out of the corner of his eye. The paint is worn, and an ugly color anyway, hardly fitting for a pirate ship. No matter what it was before, the _Masrur_ is a much better name. “There’s an awful lot of paperwork out there. Think you’re ready for it?”

 

The _look_ Ja'far shoots Sinbad is wry for all of a second, but with a sigh, he allows himself a faint smile, his cheek pressing to the other man's shoulder. "One way or another." _Maybe I'll neaten up your handwriting at some point, too._


End file.
